From Isolation
by Eva Galana
Summary: A blood mage conscripted into the Grey Wardens found love & acceptance from the most unlikely of persons. Now, left alone to command the Fereldan Wardens, how can he continue on without her to guide & trust in him. Past F/Tabris, Jowan, Anders, F/Mahariel, Nathaniel
1. Chapter 1

_This story comes from Fluid Consciousness series of one shots entitled "The Dragon Medley", the chapter entitled "Isolation". She had breathed life into the city elven warrior, Sorcha Tabris, which I had asked her to write a pairing with Jowan for. She did such an awesome job that I decided to carry on with it. In order to get a feel for this story, I strongly suggest reading this chapter in the above series. Actually, I strongly suggest reading all the chapters. It is really, _really _good._

_This chapter fleshes out the events at the Landsmeet, brings you, the reader, to the final battle, and then to the events for the end of Origins. Some may seem rushed, but it is merely to get to the feelings of what is happening at that time, not the actual events themselves. Subsequent chapters will be set in Awakenings. So, ah, be aware that there are spoilers. You know, just in case you missed that. *grins*_

_As always (I'm going to lament this to my dying day), I own nothing. BioWare owns it all. All of it, you hear!_

_From Isolation_

_The Landsmeet and its Aftermath_

He stood staring at the blood pooling under the body of the man who had been the Hero of River Dane. The Regent. Father to the Queen. Loghain Mac Tir. His eyes drifted upwards, watching as Sorcha Tabris, the elven leader of this motley crew, stood ramrod straight, her breathing coming to her in great gasps, her blade - Starfang - dripping with the once great man's blood as her shield arm hung limply at her side. There were shouts and gasps, calls for order, and a stronger voice calling for a decision, but he could not focus on any of those words. His main focus was that of the elven woman, her dragon scale plate splattered with blood, her auburn hair pulled tightly from her face. A face that was blank, devoid of emotion.

Alistair, the bastard prince, moved closer to the elf, whispering something to her that the mage could not hear. His golden armor - once worn by his half-brother, King Cailan - shone brightly and clean against the many torches held in sconces along the walls, a sharp contrast to Sorcha's blood spattered and disheveled figure. Sorcha raised those magnificent green eyes to the human and then offered him a weak grin. She almost looked as though she was about to be ill, but she quickly recovered, and turned to face the nobles who stood gaping at the elf covered in the nobleman's blood.

Jowan took one look at Alistair, who stood by Sorcha's side. The man - the bastard son of King Maric - avoided looking at Jowan. The mage - the blood mage - glanced back toward his other companions. Wynne was watching the pair of Wardens with great concern. The others - Sten, Oghren, Zevran, Leliana, and Shale - merely stood to the side, watching and taking in everything going on around them. Even Sorcha's warhound, Shartan, was watching everything and everyone, snuffling at the air every now and again, sneezing at the smell of blood that permeated the chambers. Only Morrigan's interest in the Wardens seemed a bit strange to the mage. She seemed almost disappointed at the tension between the two. A disappointment that seemed more personal than it should have been.

Jowan shook his head, turning his attention back to Sorcha. What would he, a Circle Mage turned Maleficar know about reading people or their intents? His experience with the outside world had consisted of trying to run away from the Circle, being captured by Loghain's men, convinced to poison the Arl of Redcliffe, and then being conscripted into the Grey Wardens by Sorcha. Barely a year out of the Circle, and that was all that had occurred to give the once sheltered mage any insights into the human nature.

Not much really for him to go on. Especially when he considered that the person closest to him was an _elf_.

He gave a mental sigh, watching as Sorcha turned to Alistair, proclaiming her fellow Warden (Jowan was not certain if they were friends at this point) King of Fereldan. Anora was to be confined to Fort Drakon, and Sorcha appointed Commander of Fereldan's armies. He watched as an almost shrewd expression crossed Alistair's face as he declared her general. Sorcha, however, missed it, having turned her attention from the King's face and watched as the senior Grey Warden, Riordan, approached her side, whispering something in one barely pointed ear. She gave him a brief nod, and raised her eyes, searching the crowd.

Those green eyes settled upon Jowan's face, and she gave him a weak smile. He returned it with one of his own, and thought he saw something pleading in her expression. Then she and Alistair were both lost in a sea of nobles as everyone in the room strove to garner their attention or offer well wishes.

A soft hand grasped his forearm, and he turned into the smiling blue eyes of Leliana. The bard was one of the few companions who had accepted him into their midst with no fuss or argument. Her own background - both as a bard and as a Chantry sister - had given the young woman an insight into a person's soul. Like Sorcha, she understood the need for second chances. The mage offered his friend a slight smile, and she pulled him away from the mayhem. The group stood in the antechamber, and waited to be joined by their leaders.

DA:O

She was exhausted. Muscles and joints hurt from her duel with Loghain. Despite his age, the man had been as fine a warrior as they come, and the elf - many pounds lighter with many years fewer in experience - had been hard pressed during her battle with him. Alistair had protested her decision to duel the man herself. She had quietly reminded him that he was going to be King, and that it would not do to have him fight Loghain. She remembered how his eyes - eyes she had once been able to get lost in - narrowed at what he thought was disparagement of his battle prowess, and she had quickly corrected that mistake, telling him she had no doubts of his skill, but merely a concern. Without him, they would have to rely upon Anora as queen, and the elf was not willing to take that risk. After a moment of staring into her eyes, his face had softened and he nodded his assent.

It was over. The Landsmeet had been won. Alistair was now king. And they could get on with the real issue of defeating the Blight.

She began to strip the heavy armor from her body, placing the bloody pieces upon the armor rack nearby. She would have to clean it soon, but she could not bring herself to do so at this time.

Sorcha wanted a bath. A bath, clean clothes, and a good night's sleep. However, they had a joining to perform, and she dreaded it with great intensity. If she could, she would undo Jowan's conscription, but she knew she could not. It was the only thing keeping him alive and free at this point. She rubbed a calloused finger along the bridge of her straight nose, trying to push aside the feelings she had for the human mage.

When had things become so complicated?

She knew when, exactly the moment that things had changed irrevocably. It was as their little rag tag band of misfits, seeking to stop a Blight, stood in the great hall of Fereldan's most powerful Arl. The man had declared his intentions of putting Alistair forward as king, something her fellow warden had not wanted. She found herself agreeing with the Arl, however. Under Anora's rule, there would be no changes to better the lives of the elves living under Fereldan's rule. Under a man like Alistair, who knew of hardship, who was a good and honest man, loyal and honorable, there would be significant changes. So, she agreed with Arl Eamon and sought to reassure her friend - the man who had wanted to pursue a romance with her - by placing a hand upon his arm, speaking in soft, gentle tones. She remembered his smile, the very last, truly genuine smile Alistair had graced her with before everything had fallen apart.

When the Arl had asked for her to help him decide the fate of the blood mage that had tried to poison him, by Loghain's orders, her decision had been quick. Although at first glance it would seem that the lives of a mage and an alienage elf were as disparate as could be, in truth they are far closer than thought. Isolation was the key element in both existences. An isolation that was, in many ways, imprisonment.

And Sorcha herself had done terrible things in order to survive and protect those she cared for. In her mind, Jowan's own actions were much the same.

So she uttered the words that would forever change the relationship she had with Alistair.

"_I hereby invoke the Right of Conscription."_

She found herself smiling slightly at that. Her relationship with Alistair may be irrevocably changed, but it started another with a man she had come to care greatly for. Someone who understood her and had some empathy for where she came from, what she had done in her life for survival's sake. As good a man as Alistair was, he had lived a relatively sheltered existence, even when he was among his fellow wardens. He did not know, truly, what it meant to have to actually fight for one's existence, merely for the fact of the circumstances of their birth.

As a mage, Jowan understood that. As an elf, Sorcha understood his desire for freedom.

She grimaced down at the dirty linens she wore under her armor. As she moved to the armoire, seeking out clean clothes, the door to her chambers swung open, slamming against the wall behind it. Startled, she gripped Starfang, turning to face the intruder.

Alistair stood in his clean, shiny armor, looking bright and golden. _He looks like a king_, she thought, allowing the pride she felt for her friend - and she still considered him her friend - to flow through her heart and warm her body.

"Hello Alistair," she greeted, putting a small smile on her full lips, trying hard to force some sincerity into the gesture.

"You went ahead and did it," he growled out, irritation in his voice, and he began to pace in her room. "You made me king of all things!"

Confusion marred her porcelain like skin, and she frowned. "Alistair, that was the plan all along, remember?"

He stopped, spinning about to glare at the elf. "Yes, I remember. I remember how you and Eamon decided to make plans regarding _my _life!"

Exhausted, tired, dirty, _afraid_…Sorcha allowed a hiss to escape from between her teeth. "I suppose you think Anora and Loghain would have been the better choice?"

"Loghain is dead, thanks to you," his voice softened slightly at that. He was, after all, very grateful that the man was dead. He had also been worried about his fellow warden - he wanted to still consider her a friend - during the duel.

"Still makes Anora his daughter." was the elf's quick reply.

"She ruled alongside Cailan." came the human's prompt retort.

"Alistair," Sorcha stepped nearer the other warden, tentatively placing a hand upon his shoulder. She took it as encouragement he did not shrug it off. "We already had this argument before. I thought you agreed…?"

Alistair sighed, running his hands through his hair. "I know. I did," his voice raised slightly. "I know its duty and all that, but…" he stopped here, his face scrunching up a bit.

"But what?" Sorcha pressed, concerned.

"I wanted to continue being just a Grey Warden. To keep fighting the darkspawn," here he raised his eyes, fixing them firmly upon Sorcha's own. "By your side, as we've done since the beginning."

The elven warden was speechless. Never, since her conscription of Jowan, had she expected to hear anything even remotely echoing the friendship the two of them had forged in the early days of their travels. The tension that had stiffened her back since he entered her room vanished, and without a thought she embraced Alistair, pulling him into a fierce hug. A sobbing chuckle escaped her lips when Alistair returned her hug three fold.

After a few moments, with both wiping their eyes, they pulled back from each other. "Things won't ever be as they were before, will they?" Alistair asked, hope clearly in his eyes, but so, too, was realistic understanding.

Shaking her head, Sorcha replied. "Too many things have passed between us," she replied, reaching up to tug gently at a lock of hair that had fallen in his face. "But, as long as we can be friends, Alistair, all is right with the world."

The man was silent for a moment. "I've missed you, Sorcha."

"Me, too, Alistair," she grinned at him, the smile lighting her face.

"Want me to help out with Jowan's joining?" the ex-templar offered.

She frowned up at her friend (and it felt good to be able to think of him as such), who met her frown with a lopsided grin. "Why?" she asked, drawing the word out. "Hoping to see the blood mage perish from poison?"

Alistair's eyes widened slightly, and he almost - _almost _- responded with a sharp reply. However, he could understand her question, and they had just started making amends. Defeated, he shrugged. "No," he drew the word out even longer than Sorcha had hers. "I actually hope he survives it. Riordan has some things he wishes to discuss with us, and he seemed pretty pleased there was a warden recruit to put through the joining."

"Any idea what those 'things' are he wants to discuss?" Sorcha asked as she turned back to the armoire to pull free clean clothing.

"Nope, not a clue," Alistair responded. "He's already pulled Jowan aside and asked that we join him in his chambers are soon as possible."

"Hmmm…" Sorcha paused, fingering lightly the tunic she held in her hand. "Tell Riordan I need to bathe. I," she tapped Alistair's shiny metal chest. "did not get to stay all nice and clean and shiny while someone else had to fight that demon of an old man." Alistair chuckled as he walked passed her.

"I'll tell him," he promised as he stood in the doorway, the knob to the door in his hand. He looked Sorcha over once more, a thoughtful expression upon his face. She looked over at him, one straight brow raised upwards.

"What?" she asked, a little irritated her bathing was being delayed further.

"Nothing," the young king shook his head, a rueful expression upon his face. "I…well, I'm just glad we're friends again." And with those words, he pulled the door closed, leaving the elf to her own thoughts.

DA:O

Alistair remained outside her door for a moment or two, listening as she paced the room to the bath she had prepared. He knew that the rift that had grown between them was partially - mostly - his fault. If he could have only talked with her about his concerns…instead, he had accused and ranted, and each day that passed where he said nothing only caused the rift between them to widen and deepen.

He turned, walking to his chambers, eager to change from the armor that had been his half-brother's. He was now king, but without the woman he loved. _Yes, damn it_! He loved her. To him, Sorcha Tabris was everything he wanted and needed: she was loyal, despite his thinking her so very disloyal mere weeks before. She was strong, proud, eager to help others, and had a sense of humor as warped as his own. They had gotten along splendidly since the first day they met back in Ostagar. Was it really a year ago? He shook his head, stopping to stare at the door to his chambers.

_He was arguing with the foolish mage, arguing over what, he wasn't really certain. After all, he was merely passing on the message that the revered mother wanted to speak with this obstinate mage. Why was it his fault?_

_The mage brushed rudely passed him, actually calling him a fool. Okay, well, maybe he should not have provoked the mage by insinuating that he was grumpy. But, Maker damn it! He was!_

_Chuckling, shaking his head, he turned as he spotted another figure approaching him._

_This one was an elven woman, and he stopped as he took in her appearance. Tall for an elf - heck, tall for a human woman - she approached wearing mismatched splint and chain mail armor. A heavy sword was strapped to her back along with a large shield. Her short auburn hair was tied back in a series of small braids. Her face was plain, lacking the delicate bone structure one normally saw in elves, but she was definitely an elf. Her ears, although not nearly as pointed as most, attributed to that fact. His eyes went to her full lips, that tongue slipping out quickly to moisten them. And her eyes…okay, he decided. She was not a ravishing beauty but those lips and those impossibly green eyes…a man would die for those._

"_One good thing about the Blight," he remarked as he stepped nearer to her, smirking at the confused expression that crossed her face. "is how it brings people closer together."_

_Her eyes widened briefly, and then a playful smirk crossed her lips. "I know exactly what you mean." She tilted her head to him. "It's like a big party…" she began._

"_We'll all just hold hands and dance in a circle. Won't the darkspawn be surprised?" Alistair finished, smiling back at her, feeling like he had just found his long lost best friend._

He lost her, his best friend, just weeks ago, because she saw something worth saving in a blood mage, something he just could not bring himself to accept.

With a heavy sigh, he turned the knob to his room, entering the quiet space, carefully closing the door behind him.

And he had lost her. The relationship between Sorcha and Jowan had grown, and Alistair had to watch, nursing his own hurt feelings, ignoring the possibility that their budding love could have been salvaged if he had only set aside his hurt pride and spoken with her. Instead he hurled accusations and careless words at her, reveling at each emotional blood the verbal darts had drawn. He had conveniently forgotten what she had endured before their first meeting, the reason why Duncan had conscripted her into the Grey Wardens.

He had lumped her in as a murderer as he had Jowan.

_Idiot, idiot, idiot_, he chanted as he rapped his head against the marble wall of his room.

And now he was expected to cheerfully initiate that same blood mage into the ranks of the Wardens?

He turned, pulling off that golden armor, pulling free clean clothing to change into.

He would never consider the maleficar as a brother. Riordan be damned; Sorcha…pausing, he turned to gaze out the window, staring out at the trees obscuring his view. He had told Sorcha he did not hope Jowan would perish during the joining, but he knew he had lied. Some small part of him, that nasty little part that held on to the hope that he and Sorcha could be together, hoped that the poison that would be in that chalice would undue the mage. He wanted to see Jowan fall to the floor, lifeless, just as poisoned, just as harmed as he had tried to do to Arl Eamon. For the young king, that would be justice.

He pulled his tunic over his head, running his hands over his hair, straightening it. That larger part of him, that part that was the honorable and good man Sorcha had said he was, however, railed against the vindictive little voice.

Never would he like Jowan. Never would he call him brother. But, if he survived, he would be a Grey Warden. If he survived, chances were that he and Sorcha would be together. The thought bothered the young man, even as he knew that he and Sorcha could never be together. Even had they somehow could have known the love he knew grew between the elf and mage, as king he could never be with her in that sense. She was an elf, and an elf would never be accepted as Queen or consort to the King of Fereldan.

She was a Grey Warden, and as such could never provide the kingdom with an heir.

His head started to ache, and he quickly pushed those thoughts aside. What did they matter now, anyway?

There was a light rap at his door. Moving with grace that belied his size, Alistair pulled the door open. Clean, her auburn hair hanging loose about her shoulders, Sorcha stood, dressed in a green and brown tunic and breeches. Her full lips pulled up into a smile, those forest green eyes lit with friendship. He stood back. He knew that Sorcha was no great beauty, especially for an elf. But, she had strong features, open and friendly. Matched with thick, auburn hair, greenest of eyes, fullest lips and an easy smile, and to Alistair, she was the most beautiful woman to ever grace Thedas. Stepping from his chambers, he decided that he would never do anything again to hurt her. If being her friend was all he could be, by the Maker he would be her friend.

Even if it meant offering up support to welcome a blood mage into the ranks of the Grey Wardens.

DA:O

His first thought as he strove to open his eyes was surprise that he had survived.

The second as his eyes opened was that he had never seen a more beautiful sight than the elven woman who sat next to him, a cool cloth in hand pressed to his forehead. He raised a hand, tracing the contours of her cheek, marveling at the smoothness of her skin.

Fear and concern marked her expressive face, and then she told him why the Grey Wardens were needed to defeat the Archdemon.

It had been a nasty surprise for himself, and for Sorcha, who had not known of it until Riordan told her as she waited for Jowan to regain consciousness.

Now, hours later, holding her in his arms as she slept in an easy, exhausted slumber, all he could think of was how unfair it was for him to find love with this marvelous woman, only to face the possibility of losing her so soon.

He shook his head, his violet eyes settling upon her face. In sleep, her features were relaxed, softer. She was not the terrible warrior woman she tried to portray herself as whenever they faced their foes. Jowan had to stifle a snort at that. Despite her physical attributes - tall as a man, muscled enough to carry around heavy armor all day, strong enough to smash in a hurlock's face with her shield - Sorcha was an easy going, sweet woman who, if left to her own choices, couldn't hurt a fly.

He tightened his embrace of her body, feeling the heat of her curling around him. They had professed their love for one another this evening. It had been so easy, the words and emotions just pouring from each other. It had never been so easy for him before, even with Lily. He only wished he had voiced his feelings earlier.

With a heavy sigh, he kissed Sorcha's forehead. Pulling her tighter to him, he settled down against her back, breathing in her clean scent, letting her steady breathing lull him into a peaceful sleep.

DA:O

"You are a fool to pass this offer by," Morrigan hissed at the elf, anger driving her words.

But Sorcha merely gazed at the witch, a smirk upon her plain features as she shook her head. "What consequences would we be facing in a few years, then, Morrigan? What consequences would our children be facing because I was a coward and accepted such a bargain?"

"Coward?" Morrigan scoffed. "You are being a coward now. Either Alistair or your pet mage would do this for you. You know 'tis true." The witch forced herself to calm and took a step nearer the elf. "There be no need for anyone to die."

But the elf merely stared at the human, and again shook her head. "Morrigan, we have never been friends. And, truth be told, I do not trust you. And I certainly do not trust this ritual you speak of. This is too convenient, and I'll not have it." The elf stood closer, standing as tall as the human woman. "I'll not force another Blight upon the world when all I had to do was die to stop it."

"You are as much a fool as Alistair is!"

"So you have told me on numerous times."

Yellow eyes narrowed, and that raven head raised imperiously. "Very well, then, _Warden_," Morrigan scoffed, turning away. "If you are not to take me up on the offer, than I shall leave. I've no use for fools, and I shan't fight a battle that never was mine to begin with."

"So who is the coward now, then, Morrigan?" Sorcha asked calmly, her green eyes impassive as she studied the witch.

"Coward or not, I shall live," the witch retorted. "Go see to your glorious death, Sorcha. Know that I shan't mourn you."

And with those words, Morrigan turned into a black wolf, and made her way away from camp.

DA:O

"Ah, mi a mica," Zevran purred, slipping an arm across Sorcha's broader shoulders. "You ask too much of me, no?"

"Zev…" the elven female began, twisting around to look at her friend. "Please…I…I can't explain it all to you, but I need you to promise…"

The elven assassin frowned, lines marking his face as he did so. His eyes, a honey gold normally dancing with pleasure were now hard and serious. "I do not like what you ask, my friend." He sighed heavily here, turning away from the elf who was closer to him than anyone had ever been. Her need to save souls had saved his; gave him a second chance to be more than just some tool used by the Crows. She had offered him freedom, a freedom he chose to take while remaining at her side. He had pledged to protect her, yet she had protected him far more than he her. She now asked a favor of him. But, could he truly carry through with it? Knowing what little he knew?

Of course he could. He nodded, "Si," he acquiesced, trying to smile up into her own wide, normally infectious grin. "I shall do as you ask, Sorcha." He smirked as her eyes widened. He never had called her by name before.

Recovering, the elven warden bent forward, placing a warm kiss upon the assassin's smooth cheek. "Thank you, my friend," she whispered, her breath hot against his skin.

He sighed dramatically, wrapping her in a tight embrace before releasing her. "See? This is what I do. I am yours to command, my dear Warden," he then waggled his eyebrows playfully at the taller elf. "Command me…" he purred, grinning as a bright blush colored her cheeks.

Sorcha pushed herself free of the elven male's embrace and rose to her feet. "I know I can count on you, Zev." Then, with a lingering look and wide smile, she turned and walked away. Leaving Zevran to watch as her tall figure vanished around the corner of the courtyard.

DA:O

"What?" Both men demanded at the same time, casting glares at one another before turning their unified glare upon the woman. It was Alistair who recovered his voice first.

"You cannot leave me behind, Sorcha," his voice was hard, strong, without any hint of pleading.

"Oh, yes I can, _Your Majesty_," her voice was even harder, firmer, and far stronger than anything Alistair could produce. "Need I remind you that you are King? You need to survive this. If, for some reason, Riordan and I can't defeat the Archdemon, than you are more than welcome to give it a go. In the meantime…" she stepped forward, her dragon scale plate gleaming in the sunshine. "I _order _you to hold the gates."

"You can't order me," Alistair insisted, "I'm the king."

"And I am the Commander of your armies, and the Warden Commander," Sorcha reminded her friend. She smiled softly to take some of the bite out of her words. "And as a warden, you are bound to obey me. _Understood_?'

Alistair offered her a glare, a scowl upon his fine face. Finally, he nodded, once. "Fine. Just…come back, okay?" This last part came out far weaker, more whinier than he intended. Taking a breath, he leaned forward and lightly kissed her cheek before turning away.

The elf then turned to the mage, who stood staring at her, dumbfounded. "You can't do this alone," he managed to get out as he stepped closer. "You need more wardens with you than Riordan." He continued, putting his hands on her arms, moving closer so that mere inches were between the two of them. "Riordan said…"

"Jowan," she placed a gauntleted hand to his cheek, smiling at the man she loved. Her heart almost burst at the love she saw emanating from his eyes. "As I told our illustrious king," she smirked, "if we fail, then it's up to you and Alistair. If we are all together, that just gives the Archdemon an easier target." It was a lie. She knew Jowan knew it as well. But, it was a lie that was difficult to argue against.

But Jowan was going to give it a try.

"Riordan is going in one direction," he said, pointing in the direction the warden from Orlais had gone. "You in another. That you leave two wardens together by the gates makes no sense. Take one of us - me - with you."

"I have given my orders," Sorcha said, trying to harden her voice against him.

"You're trying to protect me," the insightful mage countered, taking another step closer, so close he could feel her breath - warm, fresh - against his face.

She smiled brighter then, leaning in to kiss him gently upon the lips. "And you are trying to protect me." she whispered. "Do as I order, Jowan. The Archdemon dies today."

With another kiss, she turned, motioning for Zevran, Sten and Wynne to follow her. Shartan barked, bounding after his mistress, leaving Jowan behind to bemoan how he, too, wanted to follow after her.

DA:O

Hours had passed, and they had secured the gates. No more darkspawn, save the occasional straggler, emerged passed their defenses. Over the course of the day, they had received reports from various runners that the Warden and her group had been sighted, battling darkspawn first in the market district, and then again in the Alienage, and that they were heading to Fort Drakon. Jowan and Alistair exchanged looks of concern, but neither spoke to the other. The only thing - other than the taint that flowed in their veins - they had in common was their concern for Sorcha.

Jowan turned his gaze toward Fort Drakon, recalling how Sorcha had, briefly, been imprisoned therein. He hated the place for that reason alone. Now, the woman he loved with all he was would be facing the Archdemon without him, and that thought nearly drove him crazy. He glanced around him, making certain no one was watching. Alistair, it seemed had other things to occupy his time, and for once was not watching the blood mage like a hawk. Taking the opportunity, he slipped away from the group, and carefully made his way toward the Fort.

Bodies lined the streets and along the stairway to the Fort. He stumbled his way through the massive doorway and raced up the stairs, somewhat amazed at the lack of interference as he made his way through the decimated prison. He was mildly astonished when he ran into Sandal, Bodahn Feddic's rather eccentric son. With barely a nod, the mage scampered passed the young dwarf, making his way further up the stairs, and to the roof of the massive, ancient fortress.

The sheer destruction and death that waited at the top of the tower nearly floored the young man as he burst from the door onto the roof. Darkspawn bodies lay scattered upon the flat surface, intermingling with the bodies of human, mage and warrior, dwarven legions and elven archers. An emissary was standing, surrounded by several darkspawn, preparing to throw a spell. Growling out his own words, Jowan completed his spell first, sending an electrical tempest into the midst of the darkspawn. He did not watch the final effects of his spell, but turned to seek out the one figure - the one person - he desperately needed to ensure lived.

He raced, turning around one platform, stumbling to a halt as his eyes settled upon…her, them…_it_! Before him lay the majestic might of the Archdemon. Its near skeletal dragon form spread out, head raised as a shriek of agony erupted from its great maw. He watched in horror as Sorcha raced toward the great beast, her armor impossibly bent and torn and bloody. She had lost or abandoned her shield. Her hair was loose and danced wildly about her shoulders as she raised Starfang over her head. A great war cry issued from her lips, and she danced passed the sweeping tail of the gigantic monster. With a leap, she landed upon the ancient creature's neck, clamping on with her legs and thighs, raising her sword high over her head. Then, without a look up, she drove the blade downward with all of her strength, driving it deep into the thick skull of the dragon.

The beast reared its ugly head, swinging it to and fro, trying desperately to dislodge its unwanted rider. Sorcha held on with the tenacity he knew so well, and Jowan screamed out her name, racing forward, oblivious to the danger that still lurked around him. His only thought was to get to her before the beast died, to take that killing blow so that she would live. If he died, who would mourn? Only Sorcha would feel his passing. If she were to die…no. He could not allow it. He could not live without her.

He was so close, and suddenly he was lying upon the ground, strong arms wrapped around his waist, a weight holding him down. Warm breath caressed his ear, and he recognized the voice that was telling him to remain down, to let what had to happen be. Angry, the blood mage screamed at the Antivan elf, demanding he let him up. Where he found the strength to shake the agile elf from him he would never know. But he was suddenly scrambling back to his feet, pushing the elf back. He looked up to see that Sorcha's green eyes were fixed upon his face. She shook her head, driving that damnable blade deeper, further into the Archdemon's skull. Zevran was now upon his feet, and had wrapped his arms around the mage's arms and waist. Jowan saw Sorcha - his Sorcha - give the other elf a grateful smile. She turned to him, mouthing the words 'I love you', a sad, wistful smile upon those beautiful lips of hers.

And then everything exploded in a great wall of white light. The elf and mage were thrown back. Sorcha's auburn head jerked up, her eyes and mouth wide open. From the ground Jowan watched it all, and then suddenly everything went black.

DA:O

_My love,_

_This is the way things had to be, you must know this. I have absolutely no regrets. The love we shared is what kept me going. After what happened, I didn't think it possible to care for someone so deeply. Both of our lives were filled with pain, and we were cast aside by society for something neither one of us had control over. I think this is why we so easily fell in love with each other, our ability to understand each other. _

_I know you must be angry with me for running off and dying the way I did, and I hope that one day you can find it in your heart to forgive me. It was a sacrifice that needed to be made, and it was my duty to make it. I will be with you in your dreams, and in the memories we made together. I'm not sure what happens when we die, but if there is something beyond all of this, then I know I will eventually meet you there._

_Remember what I told you that night: I love you. Always._

_Yours forever,_

_Sorcha_

He wanted to tear the note in two, hurl it into the fireplace. She had planned it, all along. Even enlisted Zevran to help in her plan.

Her plan to die.

Her plan to leave him alone.

But, he didn't tear the note in two.

He could not hurl it into the fireplace.

It was the very last gift she had left for him, wrapped gently around the Warden's Oath pendant she had worn since becoming a warden. She had promised him one of his own, but had never had the opportunity to craft one for him. He clasped the pendant to his chest, fighting against the rising tears. After many moments, he brushed his eyes, wiping away the evidence of his sorrow. With heavy hands he raised the pendant and slipped the strong silver chain around his neck, settling the pendant at his breast. The note he picked up and, after neatly folding it, tucked it safely into the breast of his new robes. He bent his head down, taking deep breaths. Then, picking up his staff and carefully slinging it to his back, he walked out of the room he had so briefly shared with Sorcha, and made his way to the Landsmeet chamber.

It would not due for the Commander of the Grey Wardens in Fereldan to be late for the King's coronation.


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks to Fluid Consciousness, Nightsfury, Nithu, roxfox1962 for their reviews. I've also noticed this story come up in alerts. I really didn't realize that there was a demand for Jowan stories, but here you go! I am also amazed at the reaction to 'my' Alistair. I admit it - I am a fan of his. His is such a sweet soul, but far too much like a child, and, like a child, sometimes he overreacts. _

_From Isolation_

_Chapter 2_

He stared up into a face that was so similar, yet so different from the one he had known. The artist, while trying to create a beautiful goddess of war had instead created a creature that had little in common with the woman Sorcha Tabris has been. The artist had never seen Sorcha, and so had asked for descriptions of her from the various members of the group that had traveled with her during the Blight. Jowan could see the influences of Zevran in a bosom that was, well, far too large to ever have been Sorcha's. Jowan knew for certain; during their last days together, he had become quite familiar with her bosom.

The long, flowing auburn hair had been an influence of Leliana, who had an almost fanatical desire to touch Sorcha's thick locks. Her features were too elven, with a fine, delicate facial structure that looked nothing like Sorcha's broader features. He wondered where her muscles went, and what warrior would ever enter battle in plate that left the breasts exposed like that?

No, the only features that were, indeed, Sorcha's had been those the artist had taken from himself and Alistair. Alistair had described the elf's mischievous smile exactly. For Jowan, her eyes, luminous and of the deepest green, were the most defining feature of her.

Heavy footsteps sounded behind him, and he fought back a cringe. He knew who it was and really, really did not want to talk with him. Not now, not in the near future.

If he could avoid it, he would not mourn a life where he never had to speak with, see or even be near the man who approached without any attempt at concealing his movements.

However, he was King and as such demanded some respect, even if the mage did not quite feel that way. Therefore, steeling himself, he turned and watched as the Golden King (he smirked at that title. Arl Eamon obviously thought himself quite clever) stalked up to him.

Alistair stared down at the mage from a greater height, trying to hide his disappointment at having found the man here, in the great hall, beneath _her _portrait. His amber eyes shifted upwards, taking in the alien features before resting upon the sole features that truly were hers.

"I wonder who the artist was trying to paint," Alistair murmured, "an elven Andraste or Sorcha."

Jowan snickered at that, nodding his head in agreement. "Looks nothing like her," the mage agreed, his eyes fixing once more upon the painted greens of the fictional Sorcha. "She would absolutely hate this."

"Or think it was the funniest joke in the world, " Alistair responded with a sad grin. Alistair studied the painting for a few moments before shaking his head. He turned as he muttered, "Sorcha was far prettier than that woman."

Jowan did not respond, merely stared up at the portrait for a moment longer. He could feel the weight of Alistair's eyes upon him, and he fought against fidgeting against the strength of the man's stare. After all, wasn't he now the Commander of the Grey Wardens in Fereldan? The blood mage snorted a laugh at that thought, cringing as he saw, from the corner of his eye, Alistair's own eyes narrow.

With a heavy sigh, the mage turned, looking directly into Alistair's face, if avoiding his eyes directly. "This is going to be interesting," the former apostate muttered.

"To say the least," Alistair responded, his voice devoid of any of the humor that normally would accompany words as sarcastically issued as those.

"I have no idea why I was appointed as commander," Jowan almost whined, scowling deeply.

"Trust me," Alistair drawled, his scowl matching the mage. "You would not have been my first choice."

Jowan flinched at the words, knowing very well who Alistair would have preferred to be standing in his place. He looked back up at the portrait of the elven warrior. He knew whom he would rather be standing in this spot.

"Well, we can't always get what we want," the mage replied with more venom in his voice than he had intended. He flinched at the sound of his voice, at the words that came out. Alistair could take those words in so many directions, and the mage dreaded which one the king would take.

He risked a glance at Alistair's face, and was impressed by how impassive it was. Okay, no outburst then. He straightened.

"We will have some…unique issues to deal with regarding my leadership," Jowan remarked.

"Oh, do you think?" the king asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "Look," Alistair said with a sigh, turning to face the mage directly. "I am not going to send out a message that the new Commander of the Grey in Fereldan is a blood mage." He almost winced at the hopeful look that crossed Jowan's face. "Nor am I all that eager to let Wiesshaupt know, either. However," Alistair's voice took a serious note, and Jowan, knowing Alistair as well as he did, made a concerted effort to really look at the man as he spoke. "you will be having dealings with the Tower and Chantry, especially if you want to recruit mages. You're lucky that Irving died during Uldred's revolt," Jowan winced at that, "and Gregoir perished during the battle with the Archdemon. But," Alistair scowled, poking a finger at the other man. "There were survivors at the tower, survivors I am certain knew what happened."

Jowan nodded, "Yes, I had thought of that. Do you think Wynne will cause any trouble?"

"Why would she?" came the king's prompt question. "She's my friend, assigned here as the Royal Mage, and has promised to do all she can to make my rule easier. And that means making it easier for the Grey Wardens." Alistair shrugged. "No, it's more likely the templars that were stationed at the Tower will be cause for grief for you, but once a new First Enchanter is installed, you can deal directly with whomever that is."

The mage continued to nod, thankful that Alistair had taken time to point this out to him. Oh, he had already realized it, but that the king - a man who did not like him in the least - would make the effort was telling. Regardless of his personal feelings for the mage, the king was not going to make his job - already difficult as it was - even more so.

He glanced at the king, whose amber eyes had turned upwards to gaze at Sorcha's portrait. "I still don't get why the Arling of Amaranthine was appointed to the Wardens." He watched as Alistair sighed and turned to him. "I mean, after all, we do have Soldier's Peak…"

"I want to keep the Peak as…secret as possible," Alistair replied. "A secret base, as it was." He shrugged. "Actually, that was Sorcha's desire, and so, I'm going to go with it. Amaranthine will be awarded to the Wardens as their open base, a way for the Wardens to put forth a new face to the Fereldans. Now it was Alistair who winced, thinking that it was a blood mage putting forward that face. "And as a means for the wardens to earn their keep, as it were."

"Earn their keep?" Jowan asked, frowning. "Oh, I guess keeping the land safe and free from darkspawn isn't enough?" he could not help the sarcasm in his own voice, and wondered, briefly, just where that came from.

However, Alistair was nodding his agreement. "Oh, I agree. However, usually the wardens are given a tithe by the country where they are stationed. In some places, such as the Anderfels, it works quite nicely. But, like then there are the examples set forth from places like Orlais."

"What do you mean?"

Alistair ran his hand through his hair. "The Orlesian government seems to be under the impression that, because it funds the wardens, they are therefore somehow obligated to the crown. Much like their own army. They tend to interfere. Duncan," here his voice lowered, baring an emotion Jowan had not heard there before, "talked about it in detail, determined that the Fereldan order would not be so influenced. So…"

"So giving us an Arling, where we can raise funds by taxation and other methods gives the wardens a way to fund their battle against the darkspawn. Without making the order obliged to any government or the crown." Jowan finished with a nod of approval.

"Exactly," Alistair gave his own nod. "It also encourages the order to take a more active role in the people who live in the country. I do not want the Grey Wardens of Fereldan to think of themselves as above the people they are supposed to protect. By making them a part of the community, as it were, it makes them more human."

"Was that a problem?"

"It is in the Anderfels," was Alistair's soft response, again, recalling conversations with Duncan over the governing issues the Wardens faced in various countries.

Jowan stood, waiting for the other man to clarify that statement. Alistair turned to him and said instead, "You should go back through the compound here and gather all of Duncan's journals and ledgers. You may find some information helpful."

"Thanks, Alistair."

The younger man looked at the mage, and then laughed. At Jowan's confused expression, he said, "You're thanking me?" Jowan nodded, scowling up at the taller, much larger man. "Maker, Jowan. I'm looking at this as a great form of revenge, and you're standing there thanking me!"

The blood mage's eyes narrowed at that, and then, shook his head. "Yes, I rather thought this was some elaborate scheme of yours to make me suffer."

Gleefully nodding his head, Alistair responded, "Not quite as elaborate as you seem to think." He sobered somewhat, glancing back up at Sorcha's painted face.

Nodding, Jowan turned to leave. He paused when he felt Alistair's hand upon his arm. Surprised, he turned slightly. "Good luck, Jowan," Alistair said softly before turning to walk away. "You're going to need it."

DA:A

The young woman, Mhairi, was enthusiastic, brave, and very, very good with sword and shield. She bashed and hacked her way through the darkspawn, giving out a war cry that surprised the young mage. Her voice was sweet and educated, however when she gave out that great shout, it almost turned his blood to ice.

He quickly froze an oncoming hurlock, and immediately tossed a stone fist at it, shattering it before turning to face off against the emissary. Thanking Wynne for her education, he cast his mana clash spell, watching as the darkspawn mage stumbled back, clutching at its head. He then tossed a crushing prison at the thing, and turned away in search of another foe.

Soon, all darkspawn in the courtyard had been decimated by sword and spell. The mage grimaced as he surveyed the destruction around them.

"There has to be survivors somewhere," he muttered, turning to race into the keep, the young woman close behind him.

"What if there isn't?" she gasped behind him. He could hear her trying to remain calm sounding and brave, but one glance back into her face showed him her fear. He briefly wondered if his own fear showed as easily upon his face as did hers. Entering the keep through its battered in doors, he truly hoped not.

The pair continued to make their way through corridors and darkspawn, finding themselves in an upper room filled with cage like cells. In the center of the room stood a man - a mage - dressed in Tevinter style robes similar to the ones Jowan wore. A blast of fire had just fizzled from the other mage's fingertips, the crackle and smell of burning darkspawn flesh filling the room. As the blond mage turned to face the pair, Jowan let out a meaningful groan when he saw the other man's face.

"You!" the blond exclaimed, his hazel eyes narrowing in anger and hatred. "What by the Maker's balls are you doing here?"

"Oh, hello Anders," Jowan replied, his own dislike for the man evident upon his face and in his voice. Glancing around, his eyes settled upon the templars lying dead amidst the darkspawn bodies. "Oh, I see you managed yet another escape from the tower?"

"Maybe not as dramatic as your own," Anders sneered, bringing his staff to bear. "But at least I didn't hurt anyone I cared about."

"Oh really?" Jowan shot back, flinching slightly at the insinuation concerning Daylen Amell. "I doubt Neria would agree."

That barb drew its own verbal blooding, and Anders paused, glaring at the man. His eyes went briefly to the woman standing behind the other mage, her sword and shield ready. By her stance, she was obviously confused but more than willing to defend the darker haired mage.

"At least she's alive," Anders retorted with little enough venom.

"As far as you know," Jowan shot back. "Who knows after Uldred's rebellion?"

"Commander," Mhairi got Jowan's attention. The darker mage noticed the look of surprise on Anders' face as he turned toward the woman. "This apostate was brought in by those templars," she pointed her sword at the dead men upon the floor. "It is obvious he killed them."

However much Jowan did not like Anders, he knew the man. He shook his head. "No, Mhairi, I doubt it. Anders may be an apostate," he felt a bit uncomfortable with the word. After all, wasn't he considered an apostate? Moreover, he was the maleficar here. "But not a murderer. Just not his style."

"Unlike some," Anders muttered, but relaxed his stance. His hazel eyes grew thoughtful. "Commander, eh?"

Taking a deep breath, Jowan nodded. "Yes, that's me. Commander of the Grey in Fereldan." Anders' eyes grew even wider. "A personal joke from the new King of Fereldan."

"And he knows…?" Anders began, his eyes shooting a look to the young woman.

Jowan nodded, letting lose a sigh. "Yup. I'm one of those redemption causes the former Commander…" his voice hitched here at the mention of Sorcha. "She was one of those seeking poor souls to save."

He was aware of the uncomfortable shifting of Mhairi's feet behind him, as well as the extremely intensely thoughtful look the blond mage was giving him now. After a moment, Anders nodded. "Well, okay, then. How about I help you out removing some darkspawn?"

A dark brow shifted upwards, and Jowan's face scrunched down in suspicion. "Why?"

Anders scoffed a sly grin upon his handsome face. "Come now, Jowan," he snarked. "Don't be that way. You could use my help. How you got to be the commander is amazing. However, I know you. You couldn't fight your way out of a paper bag."

It was Mhairi, having recently fought by Jowan's side, that scoffed at the blond but otherwise remained silent. Jowan merely shrugged at the other man, turning to leave the room. Mhairi followed close behind him. "If you're coming," he shot back over his shoulder at the still standing Anders, "I'd suggest getting a move along then. I'm not going to come back to look for your body."

Taking a deep breath, the apostate followed the blood mage, wondering just what was in store for Fereldan is Jowan of all things was the Commander of the Grey Wardens.

DA:A

Okay, Anders was impressed. He had watched Jowan, closely, for any sign of blood magic and thus far, the other mage - a known maleficar - had used mostly primal and spirit spells. Moreover, with great talent. He was impressed, because the Jowan he recalled from the tower had been a less than average spell caster, a hanger on to the more popular and talented Daylen Amell. Anders frowned at the memory of the other mage, a few years his junior and quite personable. Everyone at the tower had been amazed at the friendship between Jowan and Daylen. Anders had been of the opinion that the more talented Amell had taken pity upon the guileless Jowan.

Even in isolation, Anders had heard of Jowan's escape from the Tower, tricking both a young Chantry initiate and Amell into helping him escape, and then resorting to blood magic to make good on that escape while abandoning both the girl and Daylen to their fates. Rumors had circulated that the girl, Lily, had been sent to Aeonar, her current situation unknown. Gregoir had decided to go against tradition and seek to force tranquility upon Amell - an unheard of practice to use against a fully harrowed mage. Then Uldred's rebellion had occurred and both Amell and Anders had been freed from their isolation to fight against the abominations. Anders had heard that Amell, defending one of the lesser mages, had died at the sword of a possessed templar.

Vaguely wondering if Jowan was aware of all the damage he had done, Anders sent a tendril of healing magic into said blood mage as he stood, toe to toe against the talking - talking! - darkspawn. That annoying and smelly dwarf was merrily chopping at a darkspawn that threatened the beaten and bound man upon the roof's floor. Mhairi had danced back, dancing behind the talking one, jabbing at it with her sword as Jowan met it with spells.

Yes, he was impressed to see how life on the run had sharpened and honed Jowan's non-blood magic spells and talents. Anders had to wonder, though, how much of that was Jowan's trying to keep his blood magic a secret from the pretty young woman with him and how much was his actually trying to rehabilitate himself.

Shrugging, Anders realized he truly did not care. All he wanted to do was survive this battle and shoot lightening bolts at fools. He stole a glance at Jowan as the Withered One dropped dead at his feet. Perhaps Jowan was no longer the fool he had once been.

DA:A

"I thought we said good bye in Denerim?" Jowan muttered at the king, who returned the mage's glare with one of his own.

"Well, as soon as we heard that you had somehow lost all the Orlesian wardens assigned to you…" King Alistair began, and Anders tried very, very hard to make himself as invisible as possible, all the while remaining by Jowan's side.

Jowan's eyes flashed slightly, and a frown turned down the corners of his mouth. "I just got here myself, your Majesty," the mage muttered in a tone that reminded Anders of his days back at the Tower. Petulant and uncertain. That was not the man he had just fought beside mere hours before.

Confusion marred the king's rather handsome face. Jowan continued, gaining confidence. "Apparently, the darkspawn were actively seeking out the wardens. They are all missing."

"Missing?" Alistair asked, and seemed about to say more when he was interrupted by the female templar who had hurried to his side.

"Your Majesty! Be careful!" she shrieked in a harsh voice. Jowan winced; Anders winced and moaned. "That mage is dangerous!"

Alistair's eyes flashed as they fixed upon Jowan's face. "Yeah, tell me about it," he muttered, letting his dislike for the dark mage show in his voice.

"She means me," Anders muttered back, slightly amused by the king's reaction to Jowan.

Looking surprised, the king turned his attention to the blond mage. The templar continued. "I have a writ to bring him back to the tower for punishment."

"Hold on there!" Jowan scowled, stepping forward. "Let me see that writ!" he demanded, extending a hand to the templar.

She cast a dangerous look at the mage. "You have not the authority to view it, apostate!" she scowled at the mage, eyes narrowed.

"Maybe not," Jowan persisted. "But as part of my boon - you know, as the Commander of the Grey - I had asked for freedom for the mages from Chantry rule. That means," he stepped nearer to the templar. "You have no authority to drag Anders back to that wretched hell hole of a tower." These last words were spat out with great venom, and Anders was mildly surprised that Jowan was standing up for him. Interesting turn of events.

"See, Rylock?" the blond taunted the woman. "You can't touch me!"

Her mouth, thin lipped, stern, opened, and then shut, gaping like a fish out of water. Alistair stifled a smirk and chuckle. "You hereby charged with the murder of the templars that sought to bring you in for justice!"

"What?" Anders exclaimed. "I did not…they were…oh, what's the use," he murmured, defeated. "You'd never believe me anyway."

Jowan looked from the triumphant templar to Alistair's rather closed face. He shot a glance toward his fellow mage, taking in the defeated expression upon Anders' normally overly confident face. Expelling a sigh that just exuded exasperation, Jowan said the words Alistair had hated since the mage's own recruitment.

"Then I hereby evoke the Right of Conscription of this mage," Jowan said, trying to put as much authority into his voice as possible. He grimaced at the squeak that came out.

Anders winced as well, and Alistair fairly glowered at the mage. Rylock scowled, naked hatred glaring back at him. "You cannot do that…!"

"Oh, yes I can," Jowan snapped back, gaining some confidence in knowing that he could, indeed, save a fellow mage from the templars. "Not even the king here can counter it!"

Alistair's eyes narrowed, but he gave a nod. "He is correct, Ser Rylock," Alistair's voice was cold and flat. "The Grey Wardens do, indeed, hold the right of conscription."

Black eyes narrowed in a face too lean and gaunt to offer anything feminine. The hatred of years of Chantry dogma exuded from the woman. However, she would not argue against the king, and so, with a curt bow, stepped away from the group to rejoin the templars in the back of the column of soldiers.

Alistair studied Jowan's face for a moment. "I certainly hope you know what you are doing," Alistair said. Jowan looked over at him, confused.

"I thought the mages were free," Jowan said quietly, watching Alistair's normally open and expressive face close down even further.

"Takes time, Jowan," he muttered. "There are lots of obstacles the chantry has managed to put up, and the council set up for this enactment has to meet each and every one." He shrugged, slouching just ever so slightly. "Technically, the mages are free. We just need to make sure that there is no way anyone can further challenge it."

Jowan stared at the king for a moment and then nodded. "Well, we've been imprisoned for centuries now," he muttered, turning away. "What are a few more years, eh?"

Alistair stared at the back of Jowan's head for a moment, and then his gaze shifted up to the bleak, foreboding structure that was Vigil's Keep. He had thought that he would have a sense of satisfaction, placing Jowan into a position the mage had no desire to be. However, at the moment, all the young, lonely king felt was his intense loneliness for a dead woman and anger and hatred for the man she had loved.

With an apology that he did not feel for not being able to assist any further, the Golden King of Fereldan turned, motioning his troops to continue with their own mission to the Bannorn.


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks, for reading, alerting, favoriting and, of course, the reviews: Nithu, Fluid Consciousness, roxfox1962. This story may update slowly (_Reborn _and _Paths _are taking quite a bit of my time) but I keep getting ideas and have a running list of stuff to include. I hope that folks continue to enjoy, and I hope to make this as unique a perspective as possible._

_From Isolation_

_Chapter 3_

The grueling task of pulling all bodies from around and inside the keep had begun in earnest. Jowan had insisted upon the non-warden soldiers to wear tough, leather gloves and cowls over their mouths and noses to avoid the risk of their becoming tainted. Even Anders had assisted in the grisly task of piling the bodies of darkspawn in one pile, away from the keep, and setting another pile of those who died defending the keep in another.

Darkness had fallen, and the greasy, acrid smell of burning flesh, sinew and bile filled the air. Many of the soldiers helping with the duty bent over, coughing or gasping for clear air. Jowan watched, frowning, before turning back to his grim duty.

The blond mage cocked an eyebrow at Jowan when the dark haired mage insisted he, too, wear the gloves and cowl.

"Aren't I going through the joining soon?" he asked as he dragged the body of a soldier to the pyre.

Nodding, Jowan answered as he took the soldier's feet and helped the other mage place him into the pile. "However, I have no idea how long we will be at this," he jerked his chin in the keep's direction. "And sometimes the taint can take over at an alarming speed."

Anders merely snorted at that, clapping his hands to clear the dust. "I've been fighting darkspawn since I escaped," he explained, smirking at the look the blood mage cast him. "For the seventh time! Never happened yet."

"Yeah, well, my luck would be that you'd become tainted now, just before joining, and die. Then I'm out of a healer."

Rolling his eyes, Anders turned and walked back to the keep, grimacing down at his robes. "Your concern for my wellbeing is touching, Jowan."

"Phewt!" was Jowan's response as the pair continued their gruesome task.

Anders looked Jowan over, a thoughtful expression upon his face as he rearranged the feet of a fallen soldier.

"You never faced your harrowing, did you, Jowan?" he asked, his voice laced with curiosity.

His mind back in memories, Jowan recalled his first step into the Fade. He stood before the desire demon, her near naked form undulating before him, offering him all his desires, just for letting her keep her hold on the child. The power that had flowed through him at that time had startled him in its intensity, in his desire to free the boy from the grip of this monster, his desire to right all of the wrongs he had ever perpetrated - at Redcliffe, the Tower, anywhere. Jowan recalled how satisfying it had been to not only fight the creature, but defeat her with nothing but his own will and strength in magic, and not blood magic.

His violet eyes met Anders' hazel. "I did have my harrowing," he replied as he turned to gather up another body, "At Redcliffe."

He ignored the confused, questioning look the blond mage shot him and continued with his chore.

Dawn rose, and the fires had just been started on the separate pyres. Jowan stood, resolute, watching as the bodies burned. Anders, at his side, grimaced at the toxic smell.

"You'll get used to it," his fellow mage assured as he turned and, with a glance, walked back to the keep. "I'm rather surprised you didn't mind getting your robes all dirty." the blood mage snarked.

Firmly hoping he would never get used to the smell, Anders gave one last look at the pyre before replying, "Yeah, well, I figured these robes were a wash anyway. Hey!" he smirked at the other man. "Since I'm going to be a Grey Warden, do I get a stipend for robes?"

Jowan glanced over at the fastidious mage. "You know, Anders. Those robes will come clean." He gestured to his own robes. "I've worn these, fighting darkspawn and the Archdemon."

Anders eyes Jowan's Tevinter style robes with a critical eye. They were still in rather good condition, the magics placed within the weave having preserved the quality of the garment quite well. However…"They're a bit faded, aren't they?"

Frowning, glancing down at himself and his robes, Jowan replied, "I doubt seriously the darkspawn care, Anders."

Shrugging nonchalantly, the healer increased his stride to match Jowan's. "I care, Jowan. And so won't other non-darkspawn. Trust me," he patted the other mage upon the back, feeling Jowan tense at the contact. "the ladies notice." He stopped, turning to watch a pretty soldier as she talked with an animated dwarf. He glanced back and noticed that Jowan was no longer in the courtyard. Taking a final look at the blond woman, the mage turned and followed the Commander of the Grey into the keep.

As Anders walked into the keep, he heard the gravelly voice of the dwarf thunder.

"Jes gimme the cup! I'll rinse and spit!"

"You," Jowan's slightly nasally voice interrupted. "are not allowed to spit!"

The dwarf sputtered at the other mage, his eyes narrowed. The young woman, Mhairi, stood by Jowan's side, quietly, watching him closely and, to Anders' surprise, with a great deal of respect and awe.

Jowan shook his dark head, turning around to spy Anders. "Good, now that you're all here. Let's go get the joining

_The Joining_. It sounded so ominous to the mage. Dark and foreboding. After all, wasn't it just a ritual, a welcoming to the brotherhood? Then he recalled his and Jowan's conversation earlier by the pyres, recalled how adamant the other mage had been about the non-wardens protecting themselves against the taint of darkspawn. What, exactly, _was _the damned joining?

Something that obviously made the Grey Wardens immune to the taint. Any dolt could figure that out. Gave them their near legendary fighting prowess (that had to explain Jowan's own proficiency in battle), their stamina and, of course, the immunity.

He glanced over at the dwarf, who stood resolute and straight, any outward signs of intoxication almost completely (save for the red ringed green eyes) gone. His hazel eyes shifted to the lovely face of Mhairi, the recruit from Denerim. Anders allowed a small smile. She was pretty and brave, but she had an unhealthy respect for Jowan. Anders wondered, briefly, if he should be the one to dissolve her of her misplaced respect for the blood mage.

He looked up as Jowan and Varel entered, the seneschal carrying a large, white chalice reverently in his gauntleted hands. Anders' eyes swept briefly over the armored figure of the older man before turning his attention to Jowan.

The mage had changed his robes, now wearing Tevinter style robes that were green rather than red. His staff - a beautiful piece made of dragon bone and capped with a large crystal - was strapped to his back. It was, however, to the dagger the man carried at his hip that held Anders' attention. The lips of his mouth turned down slightly, certain it was the dagger the blood mage used for his dark magics.

Jowan stood tall (well, for him, anyway) his violet eyes scanning over the recruits. Varel had stepped forward, speaking about the wardens before them and joining them in the darkness. Again, Anders had that terrible sense of foreboding and he glanced nervously over at Jowan. The other mage had surprised him many times over the past couple of days, and the healer was uncertain what to make of the once inept and guileless mage.

Varel had stepped forward and handed the chalice to the dwarf. What was his name? Ah, Oghren. Right? Yup. Varel just said it. The dwarf eyed the chalice briefly before grabbing it and gulping the contents down in one swig. Varel quickly grabbed the chalice back, before the foolish dwarf could empty the contents. Taking a step back, the older man watched, gray eyes wide, as the dwarf teetered slightly, blinked, and then…

Let out the loudest belch the mage had ever heard!

He stifled a chuckle, and then grinned when Jowan let out a bark of laughter. The dwarf stood, still as stone, for a moment, before blinking. Had his eyes turned white? Anders blinked, but, no, there they were, green as ever.

Oh great, now it's my turn, he thought as Varel turned to him, presenting him the chalice. The mage took a deep breath. Giving the seneschal a stern gaze, he said, "If I wake up on a ship heading to Riviani in my small clothes and a tattoo across my forehead, I know who to blame." Then, smirking at the scowl Varel shot him, he lifted the chalice, and drank.

He blinked, opening his mouth to say something. Then, the burning - horrid and ragged - shot down his throat and to his chest. Down to his stomach. He doubled over briefly, gasping. Then, his eyes rolled over, revealing the whites, and he fell to the floor.

Jowan made to move to the other mage's side, but Varel was already there, checking the pulse at Anders' neck. "He lives, Commander," Varel said in his sure, steady voice as he rose. Jowan nodded, and then Varel presented the chalice to Mhairi.

DA:A

Branches snagged in her long hair, loose from the leather strip she had tied it back into. Twigs scratched her face, and she stumbled, falling to her knees. Green eyes wide, she glanced back. The pursuit had fallen off the previous day, but the young Dalish hunter could not be certain. She felt them near, tingling in her blood, singing in her head. Resolutely she pushed herself back to her feet, continuing her race through the woods.

How long she ran, she could not correctly say. The darkspawn…she shuddered, recalling the cries of the children as the darkspawn had invaded their camp. They had lost so many in the war against the Blight and the clan had been all but defenseless. If only Tamlen…she shook those thoughts away. The Grey Wardens held a fortress near Amaranthine, and she knew she was not far from there. If she could reach the keep, she may find help therein.

DA:A

The flames flickered, hungrily climbing into the air, dancing above the body of the young woman who had perished during the joining. Jowan stood, watching the flames, a feeling of profound sadness and loss eating at his heart. Mhairi had shown great courage, skill and heart. So much so like Sorcha, yet her naiveté had been very unlike Sorcha. The mage sighed, glancing down at his feet. At least Oghren and Anders had survived the joining. That was something, at least.

Varel had come to stand next to him, offering support in his silence. Jowan was determined to remain until the last vestiges of flame remained, paying honor to the young woman and her sacrifice. He had known that one - or all - of the recruits could die, although he had his doubts about Oghren. Damnable dwarf probably would outlive them all! But, he had hopes for Mhairi. He shook his head, glancing downward. How did Sorcha or any previous Wardens know when a recruit would survive the joining? Was there a trick to it, or sheer luck? Sorcha had told him that she had known he would survive. But, how much had been her heart speaking and how much her head?

A commotion at the front gates brought the young man from his reveries. Exchanging glances, the two men left their vigil by the pyre to investigate what was happening at the gates.

A young elven woman, Dalish if he judged by the tattoos that criss-crossed her cheeks and forehead, had stumbled at the gates. Two guards knelt beside her, one pulling her up while the other checked her pulse. Her eyes - a soft green - fluttered open when Jowan approached. He gasped, pausing, staring down at the young elf. He could feel the taint that flowed within her, and knew she had not long to live. He knelt down before her.

"I am Jowan, Commander of Vigil's Keep," he said in soft tones, taking her hand and rubbing her fingers, seeking to assure her in her final moments. He paused, confused, as he stared at her hands, and then up to her face. The taint within her felt different. Not the taint of one about to turn into a ghoul, nor the taint of darkspawn. If anything, it felt closer to the taint of a Grey Warden, but corrupted. The girl's green eyes settled upon his face, and a small smile crossed her pretty yet sallow features.

"I am Lyna," she whispered, trying to push herself up, but the guard held her down, concerned for her well being. "The last of Clan Mahariel." She took a deep breath. "I…came…seeking…the Commander…of the Grey." Her voice was weak, her body exhausted.

"You've found him," Jowan replied softly, recognizing the clan name as one of the Dalish tribes that had fought in Denerim to stop the Blight.

Lyna nodded, resting her head against her arm. "Darkspawn…attacked my clan. I alone managed to escape…" her voice trailed off, her eyes closed. Jowan bent nearer, and was reassured by the steady rhythm of her breathing. He placed a hand to the pulse in her neck. It was weak, but still there.

He looked up to the guards. "Take her inside," he commanded. "To the infirmary."

With the nod, the guards complied. As Jowan rose, he turned to meet Varel's confused stare. "That girl has been tainted," he explained, frowning, as he turned and headed back into the keep. "I want a joining prepared for her."

"Ser?" Varel asked, frowning, as he picked his stride to match Jowan's.

"The taint within her is different from others I've felt. I intend to put her through the joining. It may…just may save her." The mage shrugged. "I'll be in the infirmary with her."

Suitably dismissed, Varel nodded as he headed off in search of Cera to have the joining ritual prepared.

DA:A

Jowan sat by the girl's side, watching as she slept in the uneasy rest of the ill. Sweat glistened atop her upper lip, and her eye lids fluttered. She was dreaming, the mage was certain of it. The tiny gasps that slipped from between her full lips attested to that more so than the movement of her eyes beneath heavy lids.

Varel stepped into the infirmary, pausing for a moment to consider the elven girl upon the cot. He cleared his throat, breaking Jowan's reverie.

"The joining is ready, Commander," the seneschal's husky, gravely voice came to his ears more fully than the gargle.

"We should awake her," Jowan said as he rose from his seat, pressing his hands to the elf's slender shoulders, giving her a slight shake. Clear green eyes - the color of grass - opened and she blinked rapidly several times, trying to clear her sight. Those eyes settled upon the figure of the human mage, and, for a moment, she seemed to forget where she was. She started, jumping up into a seated position.

"Easy, now," Jowan reassured, his hands once again upon her shoulders. "You are at Vigil's Keep." He smiled what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Smiling was never one of his strong suits. Amell had constantly berated him for his perpetual scowl...

She eased as she remembered her race through the forests, seeking out the Commander of the Grey.

"You are very ill," Jowan explained, that smile that felt so unnatural still upon his face. "I want to induct you into the Grey Wardens," Lyna gaped, mouth open and confused. "It may well be the only thing to save your life."

The Dalish girl stared at the human for a moment, taking in the words he had just spoken. "I…I don't understand," she admitted, a frown upon her fair, tattooed face.

Snorting, the mage nodded. "Yeah, I can understand that." He took a deep breath, glancing once at Varel. It seemed odd to him that the non-warden would be so privy to Grey Warden secrets, yet, he let the thought pass. "You are tainted, by the darkspawn who attacked your clan, I would presume."

The girl shook her head. "No." she said, sitting straighter, her gaze shifting down to her hands, which were clasped around the edge of the blanket that covered her. "I think it happened before the attack."

Confusion now marked Jowan's face. "What do you mean?" he asked carefully, wondering if he was wasting valuable time with the discussion. Varel shifted beside him, the only indication that the seneschal, at least, felt the conversation needed to wait for after the joining.

Lyna took a steadying breath, the brief rest having revitalized her somewhat. "We found ruins, in the forest." She shrugged her shoulders, looking up into the mage's face. "We fought undead. In a chamber…we found a mirror. Ancient. I could feel the power pour from it. Tamlen," her voice caught here, and she struggled with words and breath. She looked back up as Jowan rubbed her shoulder encouragingly. "Tamlen touched it, and then everything went white. I passed out. When I awoke, Tamlen was gone. The mirror was glowing, strong power - dark magic - flowed from it, and I heard the voices."

"Voices?" Varel asked, intrigued.

Nodding her white-blond head, Lyna replied, "Yes. Dark, deep, bestial. I felt an illness creep over me, and I rose. As I did…" her voice broke off as a coughing fit overtook the young woman. When the fit broke, Jowan noticed blood speckled her lips and the hand she had raised to cover her mouth.

"Look," Jowan said, taking the girl's hands in his own, cringing at the icy feeling of them. "The joining may well save your life. You need to take of it now. Afterwards…" his voice caught a little, and he hoped the elf did not notice. "You can tell me everything that happened."

"Join the Grey Wardens?" the elf asked, glancing around the room as though the answer would reside in the very stone of the walls surrounding her. "I was at that final battle, Commander," her gaze settled back to him. "I was at the top of Fort Drakon when the Hero gave her life so that the Blight could end." Here she smiled. "An elf saved all of Fereldan, perhaps all of Thedas. And she will be revered as a hero by humans, dwarves and elves alike." Jowan felt a tightness in his throat, but managed a nod to the girl. "It would be my honor to join the Grey Wardens, and continue the fight against the darkspawn."

Relief coursed through his veins. Stepping back, the Commander of the Grey offered the elven recruit his hand, helping her from the cot. "Then let's see to a joining, shall we?"

DA:A

Lyna had survived the joining. Jowan had been fairly certain she would, having survived the taint for as long as she had. Something within the young Dalish had changed the corruption within her, almost converting her to a Grey Warden without the need of the ritual. However, the blood mage had no doubt that, had she remained as she had been, sooner or later the poison that flowed within her veins would have taken over and she would have sickened and died. He was glad that she had the strength to have traveled the several days journey from where her clan had camped to find them.

The young elf slept in a peaceful slumber in a room that would be hers during her tenure at Vigil's Keep. Jowan sat beside her for some time, concerned that the tainted dreams would interrupt her much needed rest. An hour had past, and she had no such reaction. As he looked up from her peaceful face, he found Varel and Captain Garevel - captain of Vigil's Keep guard - standing by the doorway, deep in conversation. When the men noticed the Commander's scrutiny, they turned fully to him, and walked into the room.

"Commander," Garevel greeted, bowing his head politely to the mage.

Jowan rose to his feet, and silently indicated that the men should follow him from the room. He had no desire to disturb the elf.

Once outside her room, the mage softly closed the door. Taking a sigh (for he knew that it now a return to business for him), he faced the men.

"What can I help you with, gentlemen?" he asked politely, rubbing at his eyes with his long fingers. He did not notice the glance the two men shared.

"Well, Commander," Garevel responded, "there is the matter of the prisoner to discuss."

His dark head jerked up. Prisoner?…"What prisoner, Captain?" Jowan asked tersely, scowling. No one had told him that a prisoner had been caught.

Taking a deep sigh, the Captain answered, "Just before the darkspawn attack. A man had been caught sneaking around the keep." He tilted his head slightly. "Took four wardens to bring the man down and fight him into the cell."

His brows shot to his hairline. "Four wardens?" he murmured, aghast. "Hmmm…" he tapped a finger to his chin, frowning. He raised his eyes slightly. "Well, how about I go see this prisoner?"

With a nod, Garevel led the Commander from the living quarters and to the keep's dungeons.

DA:A

The dark haired man glared at Jowan, his dark eyes scanning the thin form of the mage from head to toe. "I would have thought _you_," he finally said in cultured tones, pointing a long finger at the mage, "would stand ten feet tall and have lightening shooting from your eyes."

Snickering, Jowan merely shook his head. "Nope. Not me. I can, however, make lightening shoot from my finger tips." He glanced down at his hands, waggling his fingers slightly. "I could try the whole shooting lightening from my eyes, but somehow, I doubt it would work." He raised his head, smirking with a shrug.

The caged man simply scowled, not amused. "You killed my father," he accused. "And ruined my family. The grey wardens," he spat, "have my family home and I have nothing!"

Frowning, Jowan shook his head. "Ahm…who is…was your father?" he flinched slightly at the brief faux pas.

But the other man seemed not to have noticed. "Arl Rendon Howe," he said simply, his arms crossing before his chest.

_Howe_? Then realization struck him and he could not contain the slight snigger that escaped. Stuttering at the man's glare, Jowan said, "It wasn't me that killed him," he explained, frowning. "But, if ever anyone deserved to die, I'd have to say it was your father."

"You dare…!" the prisoner lunged forward, grasping the bars to his cell, giving them a rattle. Jowan took a cautious step back.

"Look," he raised his hands, trying to placate the irate man. "I didn't kill him. The one who did has his ass in the throne at the moment. If you want someone to blame," he smirked at the noble, "go and deliver your grievance to the king."

The Howe noble paused, staring at the mage. A great sigh heaved from his chest, and he slumped, his shoulders humped, his head hanging low. It seemed as though all of the rage, pride and life evaporated from the man in a mere instance. At a near mumble, he said, "I had come here to kill you," he admitted as he raised his head, staring at the other man, who watched him with mild curiosity. "But, once I got here, I realized all I wanted was something from my family. Something that…didn't speak of their downfall." He signed again, releasing the bars, and crouching to the floor.

Jowan watched, a thoughtful expression upon his face. The door behind him had opened and admitted Varel and Captain Garevel. Turning, Jowan indicated the chest to the side that contained the prisoner's belongings.

"Release him, Varel," Jowan said, his voice displaying the tiredness he felt.

"Release him, Commander?" the seneschal was uncertain he had heard correctly.

"Is there an echo in here?" he quipped, ignoring the slightly annoyed expression that crossed the older man's face, the mage nodded. "Just, let the man go. I think that he's suffered far too much from another's actions." He waved his hand toward a nearby chest. "Give him whatever items he managed to acquire." Without a second glance to the Howe noble, the mage nodded to both captain and seneschal and then left the dungeon.

Howe watched as the slight mage left, his shoulders hunched. With a sigh, Varel turned to the cage, and unlocked the door.


	4. Chapter 4

_My thanks for the reviews on this story: Nithu, Superstar Kid, roxfox1962_

_This story is coming to me far slower than the others I've got going. It is third in priority to me, so updates are slow in coming. _

_From Isolation_

_Chapter 4_

She glanced around the small room, taking in the wide window with its streaming sunshine, writing desk and chair off to the side, and chest of drawers. Pushing herself up, she was surprised at how rested she felt, and strong. A long, slender hand raised before her face, flexing slightly, and a small smile crossed her lovely face at the absence of the ache that had permeated her body since finding the ruins.

Lyna twisted, swinging her feet over the side of the bed. She grimaced, slightly, that her feet dangled above the floor several inches, but shrugged as she pushed herself off the comfortable bed. Her white-blond hair hung loose about her shoulders, and she ran her fingers through, grimacing at the oily feel upon her fingertips. Her body was repaired, and she felt her strength returning. She found that what she wanted most now was a bath and a clean set of clothing.

Her stomach rumbled, and she amended her list to include first meal.

Green eyes skimmed around the room as she stepped to the chest of drawers. Pulling them open, she found clean under garments, britches and tunics of various sizes. All of the clothing was too large for her petite frame, but she managed to find some clothing that would fit her relatively well. Pulling a towel from a drawer, she stepped from her room, seeking out either a bathing room or directions to a nearby stream.

Stepping from her doorway, she found herself standing in a wide hallway, lined with various doors. She glanced to her left and then to her right, uncertain of which direction to head. Turning, she faced to her left, staring down the hallway, trying to discern whether she should go that way or the other.

_Or perhaps just wait in my room for someone to call me_, she thought.

With a sigh, she started to turn, and was startled by the sound of someone clearing his throat.

"Hello there," came a smooth, kind male voice from behind her. Berating herself for being snuck up upon, the elven woman turned to face the man who stood behind her, now grinning at her.

Before her stood a tall human male with dark blond hair pulled back in a pony tail, an earring adorning one ear. His hazel eyes twinkled with merriment and his handsome face was split by the wide grin he continued to wear. He wore robes similar to those worn by the keepers of their clans: feathered shoulders, open arms and chest, with belts crossed at his narrow hips. He was built much like a Dalish mage would be - sound and well muscled, able to take on foes with spell or weapon. Unlike many of the skinny, pale Chantry mages the Dalish woman had seen during her time amongst humans.

"My name is Anders, formerly apostate of the Circle, now a senior grey warden," the mage introduced himself, holding out a hand to her. Lyna glanced down at it, recalling human customs from her brief encounter with them during the Battle at Denerim. Smiling, she took his hand in hers and gave it a firm squeeze.

"Lyna," she answered, looking into his friendly hazel eyes. "Formerly of the Clan Mahariel."

Nodding, his expression taking on a slightly more grave countenance, Anders replied, "Yes, I had heard what happened." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, "You have my sympathies, Lyna."

A slight tingle went up her arm, and she glanced down at their still joined hands. Her eyes narrowed slightly and she twisted her hand, jabbing a fingernail into the palm of Anders' hand. Grimacing, sheepishly, he released her hand.

"Sorry about that," the mage apologized, "Couldn't help it. Pretty girl, holding hands…makes things all sparkly for me."

A blond brow rose sharply, but she found herself grinning at the playful mage. "No harm done, really. I had a friend who was a mage. She was always up to pranks."

"That's right!" Anders exclaimed, stepping closer to the elf. "You Dalish actually value your mages, don't you?"

Nodding, she replied, "They become our Keepers. Those who offer leadership and gather the knowledge of our people. My friend, Merrill, was the First of our Keeper."

"So, tell me," Anders practically purred, gazing down at the small woman. "Your friend's propensity for pranks…did that also include your participation?"

A grin on her face, the Dalish woman subtly changed the subject. "Where can I bathe?"

"Ah, my lovely Dalish," the mage sidled closer while pointing down the corridor to her left. "The bathing room is just down the corridor that way. I can escort you there, if you would like?"

Shaking her head and laughing, the Dalish woman tugged on Anders' arm. "Lead the way, then, mage," she instructed, giving him a slight shove. Feeling more alive than she had in a while, eager to put the darkness that had haunted her those days past, she grinned impishly. "This 'lovely Dalish' needs a bath."

DA:A

Jowan found Anders sitting at the dining table, picking lightly at the eggs and bacon still upon his plate. Shaking his head, glancing around, he found that he and the other mage were the only ones in the dining room. Realizing how uncomfortable and foolish it would be for him to sit elsewhere, the Commander took his own plate of food - piled high with eggs, bacon, ham and toast - and took a seat beside the blond mage. Anders lifted his face briefly to glance at his fellow mage before resuming his picking at his food.

Taking several bites of his breakfast, Jowan shook his head. "Not hungry, Anders?"

Anders scoffed slightly, pushing his plate back somewhat. He turned his full attention to the blood mage who was his Commander.

"Let me ask you something, Jowan," Anders started, and Jowan felt a lurch in the pit of his stomach. Whenever anyone started a conversation with him like that, it usually ended up with their questioning his choice of learning blood magic.

Or asking if he ever regretted hurting the people he had.

Or if he ever felt guilt over the events at Redcliffe.

He turned his violet eyes to stare at the other mage, a slight frown upon his face. Realizing that he could not just up and retreat, he slowly nodded his head. Anders stared at him for a moment and then looked back to his food.

"You and the Hero…" the other mage started, frowning slightly, as though unsure of his next words. Jowan rolled his eyes slightly, resuming his breakfast. Now he knew where Anders' questioning would go, and he was not going to do anything to help the man ease his curiosity.

"You two had a _thing_, didn't you?" the other mage finally blurted out, staring at the other mage.

With a sigh, he put his fork down, and then turned to the blond. "We did not have a thing, Anders," Jowan started, patiently and with a little irritation in his voice. "We were in love."

"Yet she choose death over whatever few years she had left with you?" Anders taunted, stabbing his fork into his eggs.

He knew that the other mage was simply trying to needle him. After all, there was absolutely no love lost between the two men. Anders would always blame him for what happened to Amell. Add to that Anders' distaste for blood magic, and that made Jowan his absolute favoritest person in the whole wide world.

"She choose to do what was right," Jowan corrected, looking over at Anders. "That was just the person she was."

"And you loved her?" Anders persisted, and Jowan wondered if there was something else to his line of questioning.

"What's going on, Anders?" Jowan finally asked, fed up with the discussion.

Anders merely shrugged his shoulders. "Just odd to me, that's all." he replied. "To know that someone like the Hero would love…well, _you_…" He grinned over at the darker man. "When I heard you had an affair with a Chantry initiate…"

Jowan's fork clattered to his plate, and he forced himself not to simply punch Anders in the face. "Look," he pointed at the other mage, ignoring the fact that Oghren was striding into the room. "Whatever mistakes I made in the past remain in the past. Every Warden starts his or her life in the Wardens with a clean slate. If you have a problem with something I did in the past, at the Tower, or since escaping, _keep to yourself_." He rose to his feet, glaring down at the astonished Anders. "And, if I hear you questioning any new Wardens about their past, Anders, I will put you on privy duty."

As he turned to leave, he heard Anders mumble, "You wouldn't do that, would you?"

Shaking his head, stifling the sudden grin that threatened to make itself known, Jowan turned back to Anders. "I would," he promised in a firm tone. With a nod to Oghren, who was watching the exchange with interest, he turned and left the dining room.

DA:A

Several days since Lyna's joining the Grey Wardens had past and Jowan had to admit that he was impressed with the young Dalish woman. She had shown remarkable resolution, especially with regards to the decimation of her tribe. At first, he had been concerned, as it seemed almost as though the young elven woman was trying to avoid the topic of what had happened. However, after a lengthy discussion with her, in which she told him of what had happened to her tribe, as well as that the Dalish people's history was filled with despair and hardship, and that the only way to continue was to go on, he felt slightly better. She had promised him that she had had her mourning ceremony, proclaiming to always remember her clan and those who fell, but that, by joining the Grey Wardens, she had put herself in a position to seek revenge against the Darkspawn, the ensure that she did everything in her power to see to it that no others suffered as those who perished had. In doing so, she had greatly honored her clans mates, and felt that they would approve.

And so, gathering his Wardens around, Jowan advised that they needed to make a journey into Amaranthine. As the new Arl (he visibly cringed at that), he felt it important for him to actually visit the city that made up the Arling and get to know those who were in charge of the defenses and maintenance of the city itself. Of course, it had been Varel's idea that he do so, but Jowan decided to just leave that little tidbit out of the conversation.

As they traveled to the city, Lyna and Anders walked side by side, blond heads close to each other as they spoke quietly. Jowan noticed, however, that Lyna's eyes were always moving, watching the shadows and surrounding forest for any signs of danger. The blood mage also noticed that the pair managed to, quite effectively, ignore all of the crude innuendo Oghren kept tossing their way. He knew from experience just how rude the dwarf could get, and he had been concerned that the Dalish woman would find him difficult.

On the contrary: Lyna seemed possessed of a sense of humor of her own, allowing her to get along quite well with both the human mage and dwarven warrior. Jowan startled at the realization that, in many ways, Lyna reminded him of Sorcha. Certainly not in appearance: where Sorcha was tall and possessed a muscular body best suited for battle, Lyna was small, slender, built more for speed and stealth than outright assault. Sorcha's wide features could have only been called pretty and interesting; Lyna possessed the delicate, sharp features predominant among the elven folk.

Only her eyes even remotely reminded him of Sorcha, and even then, Lyna's were sharper, more watchful, whereas Sorcha's had been open, friendly, and the deepest green he had ever seen.

The mage shook his head, shaking free the comparison between the two elven women. Doing so not only betrayed Sorcha's memory but did no justice to Lyna, either. Both women were as different as their appearances; comparing them did disservice to both.

Jowan sighed, turning his attention back to the road. He was uncertain why he had even begun entertaining such thoughts. He glanced back, watching as Anders tugged a stray blond lock and tucked it behind one of Lyna's sharply pointed ears. It wasn't jealousy that surged up in him…it was more of a brotherly concern. He knew well Anders's reputation at the tower, and could only imagine the conquests the apostate had upon his many escapes. While Anders seemed genuinely friendly to the lovely Dalish woman, Jowan had no desire for him to make her one of his conquests.

Young Lyna deserved better than that.

He would need to speak with Anders once they returned to Vigil's Keep. Maybe enact some rules with regards to fraternization? Frowning at the thought, he startled when Lyna stopped, her head tilted, hushing the men she traveled with to silence. Frowning, the blood mage turned, watching as Lyna motioned to the surrounding trees, and then, with a final nod, moved quietly toward the trees, vanishing from sight.

Brow raised, Jowan indicated Oghren to move ahead, being ready for ambush. With a nod, the dwarf hefted his battle axe, stomping to the head of the group as Jowan and Anders brought to mind spells and followed the dwarven warrior.

DA:A

Silence followed in her tread, her bow held taut in her hands, arrow notched, ready to fly. The Dalish hunter knew she heard something…someone trying to maintain stealth as they followed their group along the road. She paused, tilting her white-blond head, her sharp elven ears listening, gauging the distance between her and whomever tracked them. Whoever it was, was talented, she would give them that. But none could match the wilderness savvy and lore of a Dalish hunter, and so she stepped carefully, eyes wary for any overturned leaf or broken twig that would mark the trek of the intruder.

Ah ha, she though, bending down as she carefully scanned the forest floor. Although their stalker was indeed very skilled, he gave himself away. The slightest of indentations upon the sodden earth revealed the passage of their stalker.

Sharp elven eyes narrowed, and she remained knelt down, scanning the path the indent pointed in. There, ahead, was a dark silhouette. Masculine in form, human by the size of it. Carefully, she rose, steadily and silently approaching the form, stepping unnoticed behind him, until the tip of her arrow grazed along the back of his neck.

The intruder stiffened, hands raising, fingers spread, thumbs holding the twin daggers held in each hand. Pressing slightly upon the arrow, Lyna ordered the man forward, onto the path, and into the light.


	5. Chapter 5

_My thanks, as always, to those who continue to alert and favorite this story. I also want to thank greatly those who read and take the time to review (I know how difficult it can be to do so): Lady Cailan (who also took the time to send me a very nice PM), Nithu, roxfox1962._

_From Isolation_

_Chapter 5_

DA:A

Jowan, staff in hand, stepped around the bend, his dark eyes fixed ahead of him. Oghren was puffing away, keeping up as best as his shorter legs could when trying to keep pace with a much taller human. Anders scowled as he gripped his own staff, readying himself for whatever they would encounter.

Their surprise was complete as Lyna stepped from the shadows, her bow drawn taut, an arrow pressed against the back of the neck of a human male, standing head and shoulders taller than herself, as she forced him forward and into the light.

"Well, well, who have we here?" Anders quipped, giving his staff a bit of a twirl as he surveyed the Dalish elf's prisoner.

"Some Ancestors' forsaken nug humper if'n ye ask me!" Oghren huffed out, scowling at the human who stood, hands up and away from his weapons, before the elven warden.

Jowan, however, remained silent, his eyes fixed upon the dark face of the man he had released from the Vigil's dungeons just days prior. His gaze slid to Lyna's, who merely raised a white-blond brow, curiosity marking her fine face.

"Nathaniel Howe," Jowan said, relaxing his grip upon his staff as he stepped nearer the taller man. With a frown, he asked, "Why are you following us?"

"Should be obvious, even to you," Oghren muttered, giving his battleaxe a great swing before placing its head to the ground, leaning casually against it's handle. "Seems Daddy's boy there was gonna off you."

But Nathaniel shook his head, his hands still raised. "I promise you, that was not my intent," his dark eyes met Jowan's, a pleading look therein. "I did follow you," he winced as Lyna pressed the sharp head of her arrow against the soft flesh at the back of his neck. Jowan shook his head at her and, after giving her Commander a frown, Lyna stepped back. However, she did not shoulder her bow nor relax the bowstring.

"Figured I'd know all the landmarks and you wanted a tour?" Jowan quipped, a wry grin upon his thin lips as he crossed his arms across his narrow chest.

Nathaniel scowled at the mage, shaking his head emphatically. "These lands had been my home for most of my life, _Commander_." He did not quite sneer, but it was close. Shaking his head again, he said in a softer tone, "I followed you in the hopes that perhaps I could…somehow redeem my family's name." He raised his eyes once more, searching Jowan's. "My father…what my father did should not harm my family. We lost everything," his voice took on a pleading tone, and he stopped, clearing his throat. "I want a chance to reclaim what honor we had before my father's action stripped it all away."

Jowan stood, staring at the young nobleman. A man who had, by another's actions, lost absolutely everything that had ever meant anything to him. He knew he was no great judge of character, yet even he could see the determination in the other man's eyes, the need for redemption, to be able to reclaim the glory and honor that had, for generations, been so intricate with the Howe name. Jowan may have known little of human nature, little of the nobles and their ilk, but he knew history. And he knew that, apart for one brief moment in history, when the Howes were allied with Orlais, that the Howe name was synonymous with honor, integrity and freedom.

"So, what exactly is it that you're looking for?" the mage asked, ignoring the scoff from Oghren or the incredulous chuckle from Anders. From Lyna, only silence, her green eyes watchful, fixed upon the Howe noble, ready with the killing blow if he so much as made a threatening move toward the Commander.

Jowan felt rather humbled by the Dalish's protectiveness. Humbled and more than a bit warmed by it.

"I do not know, exactly," Nathaniel admitted, breaking Jowan from his brief reverie. "I thought, perhaps, I could join the Grey Wardens and thus find redemption in service in the Order."

Now Lyna backed up, surprised by the human's admission, her arrow dipping slightly. Her eyes shot up, brows furrowed in confusion, as she watched Jowan's own expression of surprise.

Taking a breath, Jowan stepped forward. Lyna's bow rose, and the arrow pulled taut again. Suppressing a chuckle, the mage stood nose to chin with Howe. "It's not an easy path you're thinking to follow," he said, his tone of voice uncharacteristically serious as he scrutinized the former noble. "It's not a vow you take, thinking it's only temporary. Once you're a Warden, it's for life."

Dark gray eyes fixed upon Jowan's violet pair, searching. Obviously finding something of what he sought, Nathaniel nodded, once. "I understand."

Frowning, Jowan turned, deciding that they would continue on to Amaranthine, delaying Nathaniel's joining until they returned to the Vigil the following day. "No, you really don't understand, Howe." He looked over his shoulder, watching as Lyna motioned for Nathaniel to follow the group. "But, once you're a Warden, you will only begin to."

DA:A

While in Amaranthine, Jowan had met with Constable Aidan, searched out various merchants, and met with an old companion from both Sorcha's group and his time at the Circle Tower. The elderly mage, Wynne, had been less than enthusiastic to see the blood mage, and almost as disappointed to see Anders as well. Both mages, joined in solidarity against Wynne's continued and unwanted disapproval, merely shrugged their shoulders, smirking as the elderly mage admonished both men their choices in life.

Both men agreed that, no longer apprentices as Grey Wardens, they really did not need to listen to the old biddy.

However, as the pair turned to leave, Wynne reached out and grasped a hold of Jowan's arm. Surprised, he turned, his violet eyes settling upon the elderly mage's lined face.

Curious, Anders turned his attention back to the Circle mage.

Her faded blue eyes settled upon Jowan's face, then skimmed over to Anders' before returning once more to the mage who was now the Warden Commander. "Do you boys recall Ines?"

"The Batty Botanist?" Anders quipped, ignoring completely the frown from Wynne and the raised eyebrow from Jowan.

Sighing, Wynne could only nod. "Yes, Anders." She tilted her head. "The College of Magi will be meeting in Cumberland, and I was hoping that she, as a senior enchanter with some…experience would kindly accompany me there, or, at the very least, attend."

Jowan frowned. He recalled Ines. She never took apprentices for mentorship, mainly because she had little patience for any living beings not plant life. Because of her near obsession with flora and fauna, the apprentices had dubbed her the 'Batty Botanist'. As far as Jowan knew, the nickname stuck, and few knew the taciturn mage's true name.

Not that anyone would care. "Wynne," Jowan replied in his quiet voice, glancing over to where Nathaniel and Lyna patiently waited, the former nobleman leaning against the Chantry wall while Lyna watched the door into the Chantry with suspicion. "What does this have to do with me?" He tried to keep the irritation from his voice, however, judging from the look of reproach his former mentor gave him, he believed he failed…miserably.

"Last I heard, she was in the Wending Woods. If you find yourselves therein, perhaps on patrol, could you just keep an eye out for her?" Wynne clasped her hands before her. "Ask her to come here. If I am here, I can speak with her. Otherwise, I shall leave a missive with the sisters within."

"Wynne," Jowan frowned, trying to maintain a civil tone, "We're Grey Wardens. I know that everyone got into the habit of side tracking Sorcha during the Blight…"

Annoyance flashed in those pale eyes, and her brow furrowed in irritation. "Sorcha got _sidetracked _because she always tried to do the _right _thing." Standing taller than the blood mage, Wynne looked down her nose at him. "I believe she failed only one time in her duty."

"Yeah, yeah," Jowan waved his hand at the other mage while Anders smirked at him. "I know, I know. 'Oh! Dangerous maleficar! Kill him, quick!'" He frowned at her, completely ignoring Anders. "Well, regardless of how you feel personally about me, Sorcha was the leader of the group then, just as I am the leader now."

Realizing she overstepped herself, especially when asking for a favor, Wynne stepped forward slightly. "Please Jowan," she quieted her voice, taking pains not to sound condescending. Jowan figured it must have hurt her physically to do so. "This meeting is very important."

"How so?" Anders, unable to contain his curiosity, had to ask.

The elder mage hesitated, and both men snorted in irritation. "Come now, Wynne," Jowan scolded. "We're still mages."

Nodding, she replied. "Alistair…ah, King Alistair," she amended with a glance to Anders, "gave the mages from the tower certain privileges and freedoms. A result of the boon you requested as your reward to helping end the Blight."

Jowan nodded. "Yeah, but I understand that the Chantry has been giving old Golden Boy a bit of trouble regarding that."

"Yes," Wynne acknowledged. "However, word of his decision has reached other countries, other circles, and they, too, are petitioning for certain freedoms. The convention is a means for the Chantry and Circles to gather, in a neutral setting, to discuss their desires."

"Neutral my great Aunt Fanny's arse," Anders muttered. "I would be willing to bet that there will be no shortage of Templars present. You know, to keep those overreaching mages in line."

"Anders," Wynne admonished. "I understand how you feel…"

"No, Wynne, you do not," the young man interrupted heatedly. "You've spent your whole life in that Maker forsaken tower, cow towing to the Chantry and their ridiculous rules. You never knew freedom or family. I know what it's like to have a life, to have a family, and watch it all be destroyed all in an instant, simply because of some ignorant farmers' superstition and Templar over enthusiasm for the kill."

Wynne stood silent, surprised by Anders' angered outburst. Jowan watched the other Warden mage. No one truly knew much of Anders' past, those years he had spent outside of the tower, unfound by the Chantry and its servants until he was nearly sixteen years of age. This was the closest he, or anyone from the Circle, had gotten to know anything about the man.

Finally, Wynne nodded. "You are correct, Anders. I do not know. I apologize."

The two stared at one another, and finally Jowan sighed, shouldering his staff. "Wynne," she turned her attention to the Commander. "If we find ourselves in the Wending Woods, I will keep an eye out for Bat…Ines. I cannot make any promises…"

Smiling, patting the young man upon the shoulder, she replied, "That is all I can ask, Jowan." The smile upon her face seemed genuine, and Jowan found himself returning the gesture. "Thank you."

They took their leave of the mage thereafter, seeking out their rooms at the Crown and Lion Inn.

DA:A

They returned to the Vigil the following day, with Jowan preparing the joining for Nathaniel. Anders and Lyna accompanied Jowan during the ritual, with Oghren standing guard beyond the door. Jowan felt strange that someone not in the Order would have such secrets, but he felt he could trust Varel implicitly. However, he was not willing to extend that trust to those other non-wardens at the Keep.

The former noble stood, stoically, staring at the mage as he turned, presenting the chalice to him. Nathaniel glanced over at Anders, noting that the mage stood stock still, his face expressionless as he kept his eyes focused upon the chalice, avoiding the man's eyes. His gaze shifted to Lyna, whose green eyes were filled with concern. He found himself offering the young Dalish woman a smile, although he was uncertain why he would do so. Of them all, the elven hunter had been the most ready to dispatch him when they felt he was a danger to their commander.

His hand gripped the chalice, his eyes staring down into the brackish contents. He thought that he could feel the vileness seep up from the cup, but he was certain it was his imagination. He glanced again at Lyna, perhaps the least corrupt of the Wardens he had met. A couple of mages and a drunken dwarven warrior would be his other compatriots.

_Wonderful_.

"The moment of truth," he muttered after a moment, then brought the chalice up to his lips, drinking the vile contents.

DA:A

Nathaniel had survived his joining. Jowan had been certain, somehow, that he would. The man just seemed stubborn enough to do so.

The former noble now sat, sullenly, at the dining table, the plate of food Lyna had placed before him remaining virtually untouched. The Dalish woman, after trying unsuccessfully to engage the man in conversation, stood up and left the room.

Jowan and Anders were walking over to the long dining table, plates filled with food in hands, when Oghren walked into the room.

"Coupl'a girly men, wearing dresses," the dwarf mumbled, barely lifting the mug from the table, sloshing the ale over the sides. "Dunno what good ye are."

Jowan frowned at the dwarf, settling down on the bench on the opposite side of the table. "Then why did you want to join the Wardens, Oghren?" the mage asked. Anders just frowned at the pair, turning his attention back to his food and drink. Nathaniel turned his head slightly, his face impassive, as he listened.

"Wasn'a for you, you girly whining' duster!" Oghren swayed slightly in his seat, scowling angrily at the mage. "Not fer that pike twirlin' dolt neither!"

"Sorcha,' Jowan answered quietly, avoiding Anders' sudden interest as the name fell from his lips. Nathaniel's eyes opened wider as he heard the name of the fallen Hero of Fereldan.

"Yeah," Oghren agreed, taking a hefty gulp of his ale. Smacking his lips, he set it down. "Now that there girl knew how to take a hit!" He chortled, slapping a heavy hand to his thigh. "A blow that'd'a knocked an ogre on its ass and she'd'a just shaked that head o'hers, give 'em a grin, and smack 'em right back!" His eyes narrowed as they focused upon the man across the table from him. "Not like some whiney girl who can't even defend 'imself 'gainst some moldy old corpses!" Turning his face back to his cup, he muttered. "Never knew what she saw in ye, that's for certain."

Jowan cringed. He knew the event Oghren spoke of. Not his proudest moment, certainly. "Ya whined like a little girl," the dwarf continued. "'I just wanna make it right'" he quoted, his voice rising a few octaves.

"I do not sound like that!" Jowan protested, frowning.

Oghren put his ale down. "No, yer right." Picking up the mug, he continued. "My voice is much lower than yers."

DA:A

"Commander," Varel pulled Jowan aside, talking to him in low tones. "You cannot allow the men to speak to you in such a manner."

Jowan looked at the seneschal, a confused expression upon his face. "Oh, that's just Oghren," the mage responded with a wave of his hand. "He always speaks to me like that."

But Varel merely shook his head. "Whatever the…dynamics of your group during the Blight was cannot be allowed to continue on. You are the Commander of the Grey. Regardless of what Oghren or anyone else may feel personally for you cannot be displayed publicly. It can deteriorate the men's morale and their esteem of you as their Commander."

Jowan stood still, staring at the man. What did he know about leading? A mage from the Circle - an escaped blood mage - with little experience dealing with people in polite society and he was expected to be the leader of an organization as worldly and respected as the Grey Wardens? Truly, the Maker had a sense of humor.


	6. Chapter 6

_Thanks for reading, setting up alerts and favorites (they're still coming in! How cool is that?) and for the reviews: Nithu, roxfox1962!_

_I've changed the genre from angst/romance to humor/romance. The story didn't want to hold onto all that angst for too long. Let's hope that there is, indeed, some humor in there somewhere._

_From Isolation_

_Chapter 6_

They had found her, Ines. The Batty Botanist. Bent down, over a patch of wild elfroot, digging into the soft ground with one of those gardening tools that Jowan had never saw the attraction for. Bending down upon one's knees in dirt and grass, butt up in the air was not the mage's idea of fun.

Yet, Ines was one of those who found her worth in the nature that surrounded her. And could never associate with her fellow mages on the same level as she could elfroot, deathroot, nightshade or sumac. Jowan could never understand, nor did he want to. Despite being an absolute failure with relationships, he would rather stumble his way through in making the attempt than to simply give up on his fellow man in favor of something that could never offer anything beyond a possible healing remedy or poison.

Really, what good did they do if all of your time was spent muttering and scowling?

Much like Ines was doing at this moment as her faded brown eyes settled upon the group of wardens that had come upon her. Irritation settled instantly in those hard eyes as she recognized both mages that walked casually toward her. Jowan frowned into her pinched face as he delivered Wynne's request.

A smirk crossed the botanist's face. "Oh, really. So, Miss Wynne has you two running her errands?" Her eyes scanned both Jowan and Anders' faces before settling once more upon the blood mage. "Bossy wench. You'd think the Fade shines right out her bum the way she acts."

Lyna, standing behind the mages and next to Nathaniel, stifled a sudden chuckle behind a clenched hand. Nathaniel merely rolled his eyes as Anders outright laughed at the image. Shaking his head, Jowan replied, "Yeah, well. You know Wynne. Thinks she knows better than anyone."

Snorting, Ines nodded her head. "Yes, I know. Between you and me, I wouldn't be surprised if Uldred's little revolt had more to do with Wynne's preachy bossiness than any greed on his part. The only way out of that blasted tower for him was to turn into an abomination!"

"You know," Anders said thoughtfully, tapping a finger to his chin. "We should pass that along to the new Knight Commander - Harley, Hurly, Dudley? Maybe there's a way to get Wynne blamed for that revolt?"

Rolling his eyes, Jowan turned his attention back to Ines, completely ignoring the spirit healer as he continued to come up with ways to antagonize the elderly mage back at Amaranthine.

True to form, Ines was proving difficult. She refused to leave the Wending Woods until she found the seeds from the Northern Prickleweed that she was in need of.

"Really, Ines?" Jowan quipped, scowling at the older mage, who returned his scowl ten fold, crossing her arms before her narrow chest. "Don't you think that perhaps _Grey Wardens _had better things to do?" _Here is goes_, he thought…_the very same trap Sorcha fell into…_

Ines was not impressed. "If the Grey Wardens accepted the pair of you," her scowl included Anders, who dramatically pressed his hands to his chest in a mockery of hurt feelings, and completed the act by staggering backwards. Unimpressed, Ines continued on. "An apostate and a blood mage, I can't imagine they have very important tasks to see to."

"Hey!" Lyna said from behind, thoroughly insulted by the older woman's slur of the Grey Wardens and, most importantly, Commander Jowan. Ines' brown eyes skimmed over to where the Dalish woman stood, as though she had not noticed her before. Interest sparked in those eyes and she pushed by the two mages aside to stand before the smaller elf.

"A Dalish!" Ines exclaimed, a rare smile crossing her face. Jowan and Anders both shared a pained grimace. When most women smiled they tended to be more beautiful then they normally would with a scowl. Ines, unfortunately, was not one of those women. A scowl far more suited her features than a smile.

Warily watching the human woman, Lyna nodded. "Of Clan Mahariel," she clarified, frowning.

Nodding, not truly listening to the elf, the botanist continued, "I understand that the Dalish have ways with horticulture that none have ever…."

"Ines," Jowan broke in, stepping to the Dalish's side, pressing a hand to her arm to have her back away. "If we find this pickle wood…"

"Prickleweed," Ines corrected with a scowl.

"Right, prickleweed," Jowan rolled his eyes again, "we'll bring you some. Okay?"

Frowning, the botanist nodded and then, without another word, turned back to her elfroot patch.

With a frown of his own, Jowan glanced at his companions and then motioned them to follow him from the area.

DA:A

What in all the name of the Fade was he doing? First, he ran around, rather reminiscent of a chicken with it's head cut off trying to locate that damned pickle…prickleweed for Ines. Well, perhaps a better analogy would be a genlock with its head cut off, considering he had never seen a chicken running around headless, but had seen plenty of headless genlocks.

The least she could have been was _grateful_.

Lyna had been rather amused by the whole 'locate the prickleweed quest', as she had dubbed it, with a smile no less. Nathaniel appeared mildly annoyed, not at the Dalish girl but rather at the wasted time, finding himself reminding the Commander that they had a patrol to complete. Anders merely took it all in stride with a wide smile. Of course, the blond mage took it all in stride while walking beside the pretty Dalish girl, chattering away endlessly at nonsense. Jowan shook his head and rolled his eyes. He had never been good at small talk. Fortunately for him, Sorcha was plenty talkative for the both of them.

There, right there, was that pang again. In the center of his chest. Just as sharp as it had been when she had first died. He felt more than a little foolish. They had only been together for mere months, but in that short time, it felt as if his entire life had been spent at her side, with nothing in between. Without her now…it was no easier regardless of how many days passed.

In a rare bout of sympathy, the mage wondered if Alistair felt the same way.

That feeling quickly dissipated. He decided he did not really care, and shook any sympathy for the golden king that came upon him.

After all, here he was, in the company of a fellow mage who hated him, a too aloof and brooding former noble would most like would like to stab him in the back, and a Dalish hunter who seemed to be suffering from an ill placed bout of hero worship.

Yeah, right about now, Jowan could go for sitting on a huge chair, being tended to by servants.

Nice and clean (he rubbed his hands through his dirty hair, grimacing at the oily feel).

Well fed (he could not bear to think about whatever it was that Anders had prepared for the previous evening's dinner).

A warm, cozy bed just waiting to be snuggled into (he groaned under the weight of his pack, his bedroll hitting him behind his head).

Yeah, all in all, Alistair definitely got the better end of this deal.

Oh sure! The mage had been granted the Arling of Amaranthine. Title and all. And while that idea may invoke images of a nice, hot bath; wonderfully prepared and fully cooked food; and a nice, warm bed to snuggle down into, the reality was nothing like he imagined.

After all, despite being, technically a noble (and he snickered at that thought, ignoring the look Nathaniel shot him as he trudged along), he was still a Grey Warden, the Warden Commander even. And the soft noble's life just was not a part of that reality.

So, that brought them here, in the Wending Woods, searching among the wreckages that had been merchant caravans, following after a crazed Dalish mage who could call up the roots themselves and vanish from sight.

_Damn_! Jowan pulled his staff from his back as Anders mimicked his motions, Nathaniel pulling his bow free as Lyna did likewise. That quickly irritating mage (who somehow reminded the blood mage of Morrigan, damn her black heart!) had called forth the wild sylvans, possessed trees that broke roots and tromped upon intruders.

Jowan had laughed at the tales Sorcha had told him, of the walking, tromping trees found within the Brecilian Forest. Of how the things could move deceptively quicker than their great, solidly wooden bulks would seem to be able to.

Yet, here they were, and Jowan and his companions were the intruders, ready to be stomped upon.

"Fire works best on these," the Commander shouted out to his fellow Wardens, keeping the contrite frown from his face as two masculine pairs of eyes looked at him as though he were any idiot for suggesting that, for wooden foes, fire would be best. Lyna merely rolled her green eyes, having already nocked a fire runed arrow and sent it letting, with a second and third following in quick succession.

Both mages sent great spouts of fire out at the approaching sylvans, which now numbered three. The blood mage grimaced, recalling Sorcha's stories of how difficult they were to fell. A thoughtful scowl formed upon his brow as he called up a fireball spell, flicking it into the midst of the trio of sylvans.

Nathaniel's bow sang out as arrow after arrow sped into the thick canopy of the nearest sylvan, flames flickering within the dry, leafy halo. While the former noble concentrated his fire upon the leaves of each sylvan, Lyna sent her flaming arrows into the dry, crackled bark covering the mobile trees. Soon, a line of fire danced along the crevices of each layer of bark, racing along the trunk, into the branches, and adding their own power to the fire created by Nathaniel's shots.

One sylvan fell into a heap of burning leaf and bark, its wooden limbs flailing at it struggled to rise once more to accost the Wardens. Another stepped closer, and Lyna dropped her bow in favor of her long, curved bladed daggers. Muttered elven slipped from her lips, and flames leaped and danced along the curved lengths of her daggers. With a savage grin, the Dalish hunter leaped forward, her daggers leading, as she jabbed into the wooden skin of the demonic tree.

Jowan took note of the now too close elf as he twisted about, sending a gout of fire from the tip of his staff. He did not watch as she twisted and dodged, ducking beneath one sweeping limb to pop up slightly behind the behemoth. He just needed to be certain to not set the Dalish woman alight as he sent out blasts of fiery magic.

Anders, however, did take note of the woman, watching as one branch-like limb clipped her shoulder, sending her spinning away, staggering on her feet. With a frown, the mage sent healing magic over the hunter, feeling a connection to her through the taint, knowing that the magic healed the minor yet numerous injuries she had suffered since throwing herself bodily at their foe. Briefly wondering if all Dalish were so reckless, or if it was just their own little elf that was, the healer switched to sending a gout of fire, followed closely by ice, at the third sylvan.

As Anders' coupled spells took hold, fire scorching the hardened, ancient, and very dry bark that covered the more tender wood that was the sylvan's body, ice enclosed the fire, snuffing it at the surface, forcing it deeper, through the many cracks and holes skittered along the trunk. Frost enveloped the tree, making its movements sluggish. Jowan, noticing the damage his fellow mage had caused, turned his attention fully to the further sylvan, sending out more fire, followed closely by ice. The possessed sylvan shuddered, groaning under the weight of the ice that now coated it, and its steps faltered. With a shout, the blood mage sent out a steady, jagged stream of electricity, causing its canopy of heavy leaves to burst into flames as it shuddered again, toppling over with a heavy groan.

Arrow after flaming arrow continued to pound into the remaining tree as Lyna's fiery daggers continued to slice, chip, and hack away at the trunk. Once Jowan and Anders added their magic to the fray, the third and final sylvan fell in a smoldering heap.

Breathing heavily, the four turned, surveying the area around them. No other foes accosted them, and the crazed Dalish mage was nowhere in sight. With a sigh, Jowan straightened, leading the others from the area, Lyna moving ahead of them, trying to track the mage.

Rolling hills surrounded them, to the west stood an old mine, ahead a large copse of trees. Turning eastward, the trail forked, leading upwards. Jowan looked to Lyna, who merely shook her head, indicating that she had lost the Dalish mage's trail.

"Onward, then," Jowan remarked with little humor, jabbing his staff forward, toward the copse of trees.

DA:A

Somehow, if a bad decision could be made out of numerous choices, Jowan felt that he would be the fortunate soul to pick that decision.

After all, his decision to lead his team forward met with a battle with dozens of darkspawn, reinforced by emissaries.

How in all the Void had Jowan been picked to lead the Grey Wardens?

Snarking at himself would help nothing, and so the mage pulled his staff forward, almost casually tossing a great ball of fire into the midst of the darkspawn. Nathaniel and Lyna split, racing to opposite sides of the copse, sending great trails of arrows into darkspawn bodies as they raced to their chosen positions. Anders sent another blast of flames at the darkspawn, felling many, including an emissary, before turning to cast a rejuvenation spell upon the Dalish archer.

Despite his own misgivings, his own doubt in his abilities, Jowan knew how to fight darkspawn. Understood intricately that the mages needed to be felled first. And, so he concentrated his own fire - fire, ice, lightening - upon the dark forms of the enemy spellcasters.

Of course, Sorcha had told him that was true for any enemy spellcasters - human, elven, Qunari or darkspawn. They were the first to be targeted.

It did not make the mage - a blood mage at that - feel any better that mages were targeted first. However much it made sense.

And so he concentrated his own fire power upon the emissaries, felling them as they struggled to counter his stronger magic.

Nathaniel and Lyna, each firing a continuous stream of missiles, easily felled more than half of their foes, injuring many others. Anders' own magic felled even more.

All in all, Jowan estimated that within a time span of less than fifteen minutes, the four of them had felled more than two dozen hurlocks and genlocks, as well as almost a dozen emissaries.

"Not bad for a few minutes' work," Anders quipped as he straightened, sending another rejuvenation spell into the elven hunter and then to Nathaniel.

The others chuckled along with the healer, Jowan offering a lopsided grin as he turned to survey the damage they had wrought. Not only had they killed all of the darkspawn, but had burned and frosted many of the surrounding trees. He glanced over at the Dalish hunter, wondering if they had just caused a great Dalish faux paus. She seemed not to notice, having turned her attention to Nathaniel, whom she now walked beside as they strode to rejoin the mages.

_Well, at least I didn't do anything to anger our Dalish in residence_, the mage thought as he stepped away from the group, his violet eyes scanning over the area. He squinted, certain he had seen movement against a perimeter tree. Calling Nathaniel and Lyna to his side, noticing that Anders traipsed along behind, Jowan pointed in the direction he saw the movement.

Nathaniel and Lyna both turned their sharper gazes in that direction, Lyna nodding. "There is something - someone - there." she advised, frowning slightly.

With a nod, Jowan picked up his staff, keeping it at the ready in hand, leading the way to the perimeter trees.

DA:A

It had turned out to be a soldier, dying of the Blight sickness, that Jowan had spotted. He told of how he and his patrol had been attacked by darkspawn, how he had watched as the emissaries had taken very certain items from them, as well as leave others planted with the bodies of his comrades. As Jowan spoke with the dying man, Nathaniel straightened, his sharp eyes scanning the area. He had spotted the bodies of the other soldiers and, with a word to Jowan, stepped away, searching the bodies.

The young noble scowled slightly as he picked up a delicately crafted amulet from one of the bodies. Running calloused fingers along its intricately carved surface - depicting a large stag Halla - he straightened, stepping to the next body, finding another piece of jewelry, again of obvious Dalish work. He found several such pieces, and, pocketing each, returned to the group.

It made no sense. Why were the darkspawn planting Dalish items upon human soldiers, and then taking items from the dead? His thoughts went to the Dalish mage they had encountered. She had made mention of her sister being taken by humans. He turned and gazed around, his eyes settling finally upon the body of the soldier, who had succumbed to the poison of the taint. There would be no more answers from that source.

"Well," he said as he turned back to his companions. "First, we'll need to gather the corpses and set them to a pyre." His eyes scanned the area. He really hated clean up detail. "And, then, I think that perhaps finding that mage would be our next step to figuring out this puzzle."


	7. Chapter 7

_I just realized that it's been over two months since I last updated this story! My thanks to the alerts that continue to pop up for this story (see? Loads out there loving Jowan!). My thanks also to Nithu and Chasind Desire for their latest reviews. If you have not read these ladies' stories, really - you should._

_From Isolation_

_Chapter 7_

How he wished that they had never found the damned mage! What he really wanted was for her to simply perform one of those exceedingly impressive root jump spells and, well, get completely and utterly tangled and lost somewhere beneath the earth and never be heard from again.

No such luck. They had found the decimated Dalish camp, surprisingly not far from where they had found the human soldier. There, kneeling before one of the many - too many - shallow graves was the blond Dalish mage, her head bent, soft words whispering out from her lips. Lyna had paused, holding out a hand to the others for them to stay where they stood. Cautiously, the Dalish hunter stepped nearer the mage, uttering soft sounds that Jowan assumed were Dalish.

The mage's blond head rose slightly, tilting as she spoke to the other elf. Jowan noticed a slight flush rise to Lyna's cheeks, and he was certain her words to the other Dalish were harsher, her tone more clipped. The unnamed mage merely snorted in reply, turning her attention back to the grave for a moment before rising gracefully to her feet.

Okay, now, did he mention just how much this mage reminded him of Morrigan? Thinking on that, he really needed to apologize to the Marsh Witch, should he ever have the misfortune of finding her again. This mage - ah, Velanna - made the acrid tongued wench seem more like Little Mary Sunshine in comparison. The contempt he saw upon her face when speaking with Lyna was far harsher than anything he had ever seen upon the Witch's delicate features.

He had to give Lyna credit, however, as the mild tempered elven Warden merely shook her head as the other Dalish spoke to her, but he did notice a scowl form between her brow. Nathaniel, standing just behind him, shuffled his feet slightly, and he noticed that Anders was scowling severely at the Dalish mage. Well, he was not happy with the woman either, but had decided to let their Dalish warden handle her for the moment.

It was once the color had drained from Lyna's face that he decided to step in, bringing the mage's focus of ire upon him and away from _his _warden.

He briefly wondered how the elven woman would feel at his thinking of her as 'his', but let that thought dissipate as he faced down the Dalish mage.

"If you desire our assistance, Velanna," Jowan found his voice, and found it stern and foreboding. "You will treat the Wardens with respect."

The Dalish mage scoffed at the human mage, contempt plain upon her beautiful but twisted features. She muttered something in elvish, and Lyna's face colored, and she, with more anger than any of them had ever heard in her tones, whispered something back in the same language. Velanna's own features colored, but before she could retort, the elven warden spun on her heel, and stomped away.

Anders flashed another angered glare at the Dalish mage, and then followed after Lyna.

Taking a breath to steady his nerves, Jowan turned his attention back to the glowering mage, taking note that Nathaniel stood not far behind the woman. "You made mention of wishing our assistance?" he prompted, taking a small amount of joy in the confusion that crossed the elf's face.

"You would still assist me?" she quipped, scowling.

"You certainly do make it _so _easy to want to do so," Jowan admitted, crossing his arms before him, his staff tucked against him. "What, with your soft, gentle voice. Appreciative glances. Kind words asking for help."

Behind her, Nathaniel merely shook his dark head at the Commander. Judging by the look upon her face, Jowan figured Velanna thought him mad.

Well, to be a Warden, you have to be a little crazy…Sorcha certainly was.

A tight little grin made its way across his face as Sorcha came to mind. Just conscripting him into the Wardens had been proof positive just how nuts that girl had been.

And, as always, that feeling of loss followed his happy thoughts of the elven Warden. It still amazed him. After a lifetime of accepted losses, of always being denied even the most basic of human needs and desires, the loss of his one and only love still affected him, even these months later. When Lily had been taken away, he lived with regret for causing the good woman harm. However, he had never really had that gut wrenching, heart breaking sense of having lost the most important component of his life as he did whenever his thoughts or feelings inevitably went to the quirky elven woman.

He pulled himself from his reminiscences, grinning widely at the befuddled expression upon the Dalish mage's lovely face. That befuddlement quickly changed to a stern glower as she noticed the human mage's attention focused back upon her.

"Are you mad?" Velanna sniped at him, a scowl marring her lovely features as she echoed the mage's own thoughts.

Jowan gave a slight shrug as Anders piped in as he returned to the group, Lyna nowhere in sight, "We always thought so."

"Where's Lyna?" Jowan asked, turning his attention to his fellow former Circle mage, ignoring the snide comment artfully.

Anders shrugged, ticking his head eastward. "Lyna thought she saw something. She's scouting ahead a bit."

"You let her go off alone?" Nathaniel turned on the blond mage, who stepped back, pulling his staff in front of him in a purely defensive move.

_Oh, wonderful_. Jowan thought, raising a hand to his head. Stepping over between the two, he put up a hand. "Lyna is far more capable of surviving these woods than any of us here," his hand swept to include the three men and even Velanna, whose scowl deepened at the insult to her wood lore. Jowan offered the tiniest of apologetic smiles as he stepped away from the two men, letting them continue to glower and scowl at one another.

As the Commander turned his attention back toward the decimated Dalish campsite, his eyes once again fixed upon the general wrongness of the place, Lyna stepped from the shadows, her bow slung across her shoulders, her posture relaxed. As she approached her Commander, she passed by Velanna, offering her fellow Dalish the barest of nods. She stepped beside Jowan, her own eyes scanning the area silently.

"Do you feel it?" Jowan whispered to the Dalish hunter, turning slightly to look at her profile. The girl nodded, not turning her eyes to the man, but continuing to take in the scattered human crafted weapons and other trinkets, finally settling upon the shallow graves Velanna had dug for those of her people who had perished. A frown turned down the corners of her lips as she took note of the rather pitiable saplings the First had planted at the head of each gravesite.

"I had never known humans to be so foolish as to give up their weapons, and yet not leaving the bodies of their fallen behind," she turned then, staring into Jowan's face.

"Especially if they're just bandits, as we're supposed to think they were," Jowan finished, nodding slightly. During his time with Sorcha and Crew, he had learned a great deal about human nature. Normally, bandits left their dead behind, taking the valuables that had fallen with their dead. If any of them took the time to remove their fallen, they also took care to remove any other evidence of their having been present.

That such obvious signs of a human invasion to the small, peaceful Dalish setting were left behind…added to what they found when they had found the corrupted human soldier earlier that day, set off all kinds of bells in Jowan's head.

He just knew that the items had been purposefully left behind at both sites of attack. And, not left behind by those they were supposed to think had done so.

It was just too obvious.

Yet another thing he could thank Sorcha for.

Taking a deep breath, he turned back to the hunter. "Anders said you went out scouting." Lyna nodded. "What did you find?"

As he asked the question, Anders and Nathaniel, followed closely by Velanna, stepped toward the pair, intent upon what discovery their scout had found.

"Just southeast of this site is an entrance to what I gather to be a deserted mine," Lyna advised, her green eyes skimming over her fellow Wardens, completely ignoring Velanna. "The door has recently been unlatched and opened."

"An invitation?" Anders quipped, frowning as he turned his gaze in the direction Lyna had indicated.

Beside him, Nathaniel scoffed aloud, scowling as he turned bodily to the southeast, his gray eyes narrowed as he surveyed that path.

"More likely a trap," Jowan muttered, frowning. "However, it's a place to begin our search."

"I shall accompany you," Velanna interrupted. "I must find my sister!"

Taking a deep breath, Jowan turned back to the mage. He was taken aback by the pleading look her saw within her glittering blue eyes. _Great_! He thought with a scowl. "Fine, fine. Velanna, you may accompany us." A small smile crossed the Dalish mage's face, and Jowan was struck by how pretty she was…when she wasn't glaring daggers at everyone around her. "However," her smile faltered, her eyes narrowed again. "I lead here. You follow my directions, or you can just wait out here."

Eyes narrowed, glaring, the elven mage gave a short, curt nod, stepping aside in a motion clearly designed to indicate that he should take the lead, and lead now. Ignoring Anders' chuckled behind him, Jowan merely shook his head, hefted his staff, and led the way away from the camp, and toward the mines Lyna had found.

DA:A

_Sleep_.

As simple as that. His defenses were down. And the others, his Wardens and Velanna, had succumbed as easily to the suggestion as he had.

_Sleep_.

He awoke in the dark, a dim halo of light surrounding him, tied down to a rack, a tall, spindly figure standing over him, its features distorted. Perhaps it was the spell making his senses groggy, but the mage was almost certain that it was a darkspawn emissary that stood over him, articulately offering apologies, telling him that what was done was necessary.

_Sleep_.

He awoke upon the hard, cold, stone floor of a cell, his fellows watching him with deep concern upon their faces, Lyna bent over him, her young face worried. As he pushed himself up, he took note that everyone - himself included - were no longer clad in their own attire, but clothed in worn, peasant garments. He lifted an arm, taking a sniff, and quickly wished he had not done so.

With Lyna's assistance, he stumbled to his feet, glancing around. Well, of course none of their weapons would be with them. Idiot. Lyna's hand upon his arm kept him steady, and he offered her a small smile as he turned at the sound of someone walking into the chamber beyond their cell.

As one, the cellmates turned to watch as a pretty elven woman stepped from the shadows, to stand before the tightly locked cell door. It took a mere moment for Jowan to take in the blond hair, soft blue eyes, and angular features.

His suspicions were confirmed as Velanna let out an anguished "Seranni!" and rushed to the cell's bars, her hands reaching out toward the younger woman, her body pressed against the rusty bars as she attempted to get closer to the approaching woman.

Seranni, obviously Velanna's missing sister, stepped fully into the light. His stomach plummeted as he took in the fine features that marked her as kin to the Dalish mage.

Marred by the dark lines and gray skin of the Blight.

As Seranni reached to take Velanna's hands in her own, Jowan reached forward, pulling the female mage's hands away. The other woman obviously understood the gesture, despite the anger that flowed from Velanna as she spit rage at the Commander. Seranni took a step back, dropping her arms to her sides, her fists clenched in despair.

"What…what's wrong?" Velanna demanded as the other Wardens stepped nearer, taking in the tainted elf just beyond their cell.

"She's tainted," Lyna said from behind the other Dalish woman. Velanna turned to glare at the hunter, but Lyna merely shook her head. "If you touched her…"

"It's not the same," Seranni offered with a frown, but made no move toward her sister again. "And, it does not matter. Not now." She turned her still blue eyes to her sister, and it was then that Velanna noticed the silver gleam of the irises. "You have to get out of here." She reached into a pocket at her hip, pulling free a bronze key, which she extended to Jowan with a shaking hand. "Get yourselves - and my sister - away from here." She glanced back toward the door she had entered by. "Quickly."

"What…?" Jowan began but Seranni had stepped away, shaking her head. "Please," she pleaded, her eyes wide and shimmering with unshed tears. "You must get out of here. Before they come for you…"

"Our things…" Anders muttered.

"I don't know," Seranni admitted, frowning as she continued to back away, her eyes going back to the door. It was then that the others within the cell could hear the sounds of feet approaching, the tell-tale chuckle of approaching darkspawn. "Please," she pleaded again. "You must leave!"

"We cannot leave you!" Velanna insisted as Jowan handed the key to Nathaniel, who began working the rusted and damaged lock to their cell.

"You must," Seranni insisted as she turned back toward the shadows. "There is nothing for me but him. You…" her eyes glittered as she stepped back into the shadows. "You must escape." And she was gone as Nathaniel managed to open the lock, pushing the barred door open, just as hurlocks and genlocks entered the chamber.

Snarling, Velanna let loose a volley of flames, catching the approaching darkspawn within, the stench of the corrupted flesh filling the chamber. Shaking his head at the excessive use of magic, Jowan pulled in his power, focusing it upon the darkspawn in the back of the group, bows drawn as they prepared to let loose volleys. With a growl, using his hands as the focus of his power, the blood mage let loose a steady, concentrated stream of flames. The darkspawn archers burst into flames, flopping to the ground as Nathaniel rushed in with no danger of being singed himself by the mage's fire, and pulled free a long sword from one outstretched genlock hand.

Their foes dead, the group searched the bodies for weapons. None of them could bring themselves to stripping the corrupted forms of their armor, and settled for blades and bows, the mages taking hold of daggers in lieu of their staffs.

Thusly armed, the group began to make their way free of the prison, searching for an exit to the surface.

DA:A

They had fought their way through the mines, fighting darkspawn and ghouls alike, to get to where they now stood. For some insane reason, their gear had been outfitted to the ghouls they had killed and, despite the odor that clung to his robes, Jowan had never been happier to wear his garish Tevinter style robes as he was now. The staff of dragon bone fit perfectly in his hands, and he clasped it tightly between his hands, glaring up at the emissary that stared down at them from its loft.

Jowan had participated in the deaths of others numerous times, and had no qualms whatsoever of killing darkspawn. But, he had never felt the intense anger and hatred as he did now. Seeing Velanna's sister, Seranni, standing calmly by the emissary's side, a small dwarven woman - wearing a Grey Warden Oath around her neck - standing before her, incensed him even further.

He did not care for the emissary's explanations.

There was nothing it could say to ease the desire to kill it.

It had spouted that the taking of blood had been necessary; that the kidnapping and murder of the Grey Wardens had been a necessary evil…Jowan shook the words from his head. He had, just hours before, plunged a dagger into the heart of a brother Warden, ending his suffering and promising to bring his wedding ring to his wife back in Amaranthine.

To the Void with what this emissary felt was necessary!

The emissary must have sensed the Commander's ire, for it gave out a strangely sad sigh, waving its hand. The air above them fluttered and whirled, and the sound of great wings beating at the air came to the ears of those upon the hall's floor. As the Wardens looked up, two dragons gracefully fluttered to the floor, malevolent red eyes fixing up the humans and elves that scrambled for both defensive and offensive positions.

Calling out its regret, the darkspawn pushed the elf and dwarf ahead of it, moving away from the balcony's edge as the Wardens battled the dragons below.

Clad once again in their usual armor and robes, wielding weapons that had been crafted specifically for them, worn to the wear of their own hands, the rogues and mages met the challenge of two small - but adult - dragons…not quite head on, but with fierce determination and skill.

And as they battled the dragons, the emissary was preparing its own escape, pulling in powerful magics. Jowan could feel the alien power dance along his senses, and, as one final gust of ice felled the second dragon, the blood mage turned, looking up.

The chamber began to rumble, the earth beneath their feet quaking. With a shout, the mage hastily shot off a spell, hoping to paralyze the emissary, rooting it to the spot. However, the frantically cast spell went awry, bouncing off a spell shield, evaporating into the ether. Rubble rained down, and Jowan turned to see Nathaniel pulling Lyna close, his arms covering her head as Anders covering his head with his own arms.

With a scowl, Velanna stepped to Jowan's side, eyes closing, as she called upon her own Dalish magic, seeking to counter that of the emissary. A thoughtful frown formed upon her lips, and indiscernible words slipped from between her full lips, falling flat to the human's ears. Jowan watched, astounded, as roots burst through the ancient stone flooring of the chamber, surrounding the Wardens, rising upwards and bending over them, forming a protective ceiling over the group. Shortly, the rumblings ceased, and the group cautiously stepped from their natural shelter.

As he had feared, the emissary had made good on its escape. And he had no idea where it went.

With a thanks to the Dalish mage, Jowan called the others forward, and they made their way through the rest of the mines.

They would head back to Vigil's Keep.

They were all in need of rest. Velanna had asked to join with the Wardens, hoping to use the abilities granted to Grey Wardens in her search for her sister. Despite how much he disliked the Dalish mage, Jowan had to admit that she was powerful, and the magic and knowledge that she would add to the variety of his Wardens would be welcome.

If she survived.

He figured that she was just stubborn enough that she would.

And so, he led them through the Wending Woods, back to the Vigil.

Where Jowan planned to fully acquaint himself with the area that he found himself steward of. With luck, rumor would give away to fact, and he may well be able to discern where the mysterious emissary would have moved its lair to.


	8. Chapter 8

_I've been a bit under the weather, and hadn't been able to do any writing these past couple of weeks. However, I have to say, this chapter practically wrote itself. Nothing serious, all fluff and fun. But, still, it got me back into the swing of things._

_My thanks to everyone who reads, lurks, alerts, and reviews. Nithu, I'm talking to you!_

_From Isolation_

_Chapter 8_

Months of traveling with Sorcha and her rag-tag band of misfits had hardened Jowan physically, accustoming him to hard travel and harder work, tough battles and horrible cooking (well, when Alistair was on cook detail, that was). The weeks since taking over the Arling of Amaranthine had seen the mage in the wilds more often than ensconced in his comfortable bedroom and offices. Honestly, it had become almost second nature to the formerly soft mage whose toughest physical exertion had been to climb the stairs from the apprentice quarters to the classrooms on the upper levels at Kinloch Hold.

Battles had become common place, a near daily event, both during the Blight and whenever he and his fellow Wardens traipsed about the woods, wildernesses and paths that crisscrossed the Arling. His staff now sported a spear-like tip, testimony to the ability of the mage to not only meet foe with spell, but with brute force if necessary.

That's him - brutish blood mage Jowan. He could almost hear the adrenaline pumping through his veins, hot vibrancy coursing throughout his body, energizing him to play at the hero once again. He took a bold step forward, back straight as he considered the numerous foes that awaited him.

Only to quickly freeze, his hand upon the doorknob, as he considered what truly awaited him in the Great Hall.

Nobles.

Frankly, the mage would far rather face a swarm of darkspawn and emissaries than what passed as Ferelden nobility.

Grinding his teeth, the mage adjusted his tunic, twisting it slightly as he then tugged at the trousers that covered his legs. He felt far more comfortable in his robes, however the Seneschal (and may the Maker assure Varel always remain at the Vigil and live a long, long life!) had suggested that the mage dress as a noble instead of his mage robes when facing Amaranthine's nobles who awaited below. Anders scowled at the well meaning seneschal while Velanna had scoffed loudly. However, Jowan nodded his agreement, assuring his fellow mages that they could remain in their comfortable robes (although Jowan truly wished the Dalish mage would wear something a bit more…appropriate for greeting the largest Arling's nobility. He swore she wore less than Morrigan had). Anders simply stared at his fellow Circle mage for a moment before giving him a curt nod. Velanna merely stalked away, continuing to mutter under her breath.

Despite being a blood mage; despite having hated every minute of his confinement in the Circle. Despite what he may have said a time or two prior, Jowan was a devote Andrastian. He believed wholly in the Maker, and believed that, on the whole, Andraste had been a woman of great vision and firm compassion. He doubted seriously that her words that magic should serve man meant that mages should be imprisoned merely for being mages. There were many times he and the resident Mother at the Circle had come to harsh words over the interpretation of the Prophet's words, and always, the mage had left in a huff, his own arguments falling upon deaf ears.

Jowan also firmly believed that the Maker was out to get him. Personally. That, somehow, at some point in his life - prior to his use of blood magic, of course - he had so offended the Maker to the point where it became the Maker's goal to make the mage as miserable as possible.

His months with Sorcha must have been the lead up to the Maker's greatest prank yet on the poor sod.

And so, here he stood beside the always efficient Varel, listening as this noble and that gave his or her oath of fealty to the Arl of Amaranthine. One by one, led off by the harpy Bann Esmerelle, the nobles bowed deeply (or not so deeply) before the mage, voicing the same old oath, few offering any inflection in their voices as they repeated the same tired old words that they had sworn to the previous Arl (that thought gave the mage more than a moment's pause), and the Arl prior to Rendon, and so on back into history.

He doubted most of them even know what the true meaning behind the words were any more.

It was obvious, however, by some of the tight faces he watched as they spouted out the ancient oath: Many of these people were not happy giving such an oath to a mage.

He would have shrugged, had it not seemed impolite (something Varel had taken a great deal of time explaining to the young mage). Maker forbid that Jowan appear anything other than graciously accepting of the cowtowing, mewling nobles spewing of the rhetoric tantamount to mere recitation verbatim of an oath none of them believed in.

Even those who were devoted to the Arl could not possibly mean the words that came from their mouths. Not if they had managed to spout the same words off to the former Arl on a regular basis. After all, how could they possibly mean to be loyal to a man who murdered his way to the top and then mean them again to a mere mage who had a hand in stopping the Blight?

Well…maybe if they knew he was a maleficar…?

_Stop it, stop it_! He reprimanded himself as he forced his mind to cease its wandering and focus upon the nobles. He knew the Maker was having a great laugh. He then wondered if Sorcha was there, by the Maker's side, sharing a chuckle as well.

That would be so true to form for his love. He could almost see her laughing at him.

An eye roll caused the noble before him to stumble at the words spilling from his mouth, and Jowan felt Varel stiffen slightly beside him, a silent reprimand. As cover, Jowan smiled benignly at the man - Noble Somesuchorother - who returned the smile and finished his oath, stepping aside to allow an older woman to spew - ah, make her own oath.

What he really wanted to do at this point was to turn tail and run. Just run. Head for the wilds, perhaps. There were still darkspawn there. Although from a recent report he understood that there was something in the wilds keeping the majority of what was left of the horde at bay. He had wondered at that, but quickly pushed it aside. His time, for now, would be spent in keeping Amaranthine safe; turn it once more into a profitable port.

Perhaps manage to not get himself killed in the meantime. Now that would be perfect.

He was certain that would be plenty for him to do for now.

After all, this was the perfect activity for a Grey Warden in Ferelden. Secure profit.

Oh? There are darkspawn still in the wilds? I'll get my men ready….what? No. We Grey Wardens - defenders against Blights and darkspawn - are assigned to the Arling and need to remain to…secure the Grey Warden presence within Ferelden.

But, what of the darkspawn?

Oh, there will always be darkspawn to battle, but the Order may never be given an Arling ever again.

Wonderful. Fine. Just remain here…listening to the nobles babble on. Oh! And there is Mistress Woolsley, just waiting for me to help her count her coin.

Ah, yes, shutting up now…there's another noble spouting the oath. How many damned nobles are there, anyway?

He slipped again into his own thoughts, this time so deeply that Varel had to nudge him once the last noble had presented himself before the Arl (Jowan almost chuckled at that thought). Turning confused eyes to the Seneschal, Varel prompted the mage to mingle.

"Really?" Jowan whispered, casting concerned eyes to the horde of nobles milling about the Great Hall, Nathaniel, Lyna and Anders visible from their spots in the alcoves, watching the spectacle with varying degrees of humor. "Mingle?"

Letting out a great, pained sigh, Varel nodded. "You need them to see you as _their _Arl. Something other than the Commander of the Grey." And certainly something other than a mage. Those words were not said, although they were implied.

_Something other than a mage_…what else was he, truly, if not a mage?

Almost pouting, Jowan asked, "Can I make the others mingle too?"

Varel raised a steel gray brow, his gray eyes fixed upon the mage's face. "You are the Arl. For them, more importantly, you are their Commander."

Clapping his hands together once, sharply, Jowan grinned with triumph. "Good. Have them mingle, too!"

Feeling more than a bit smug at having forced his Wardens to mingle with the nobles, Jowan offered the other man a slight nod, and stepped down from the dais. To mingle.

Oh, yes. The Maker was having his great laugh now. Jowan was certain of it as he stood, nodding his dark head as the noblewoman before him - the sour faced Bann Esmerelle (really? What had she eaten to get her mouth as puckered as it was?) - regaled him with the need to rebuild the wealth of Amaranthine City, of assigning more guards to watch over the walls of the great port, and allow more imports to flow through.

Honestly, Jowan was only half listening. The woman obviously was full of her own self-importance and was more than happy to continue to speak. However, another of the nearby nobles, Bann Eddelbrek, if Jowan recalled correctly, interrupted with his own concerns.

Which, of course, were counter to Esmerelle's concerns, for they lay in the farmlands that produced more than half of crops that fed Ferelden. Farmlands that were now being devastated by darkspawn and other unknown creatures. And were in need of extra protection if they were to continue being productive.

Jowan was certain the conversation would have ended with blows had he not intervened quickly. At Varel's urging, he made a formal declaration that he would assign further patrols along the trade routes and farmlands. The city had its own barracks and, if the Bann felt there was a need for more guards to be added to the rosters, than she, as the Bann of the city, should make such arrangements. Esmerelle was not happy to learn that any additional soldiers would come from her coffers.

Eddelbrek, however, was very pleased with the proclamation, offering his heartfelt thanks over and over.

So, Jowan was feeling pretty good. After all, Esmerelle was Bann over the wealthiest portion of Amaranthine, and had the funds to secure more guards. Eddelbrek, however, was not as wealthy, much of his own coin going back into the land, and into the land of the farmers he served as administrator over. Additional coin would only become available once crops had been brought in and sold.

And that was not for several months yet.

Yes, Jowan was feeling very good. Rather smug, actually. The instruction Varel had been giving him on the Arling's matters had, indeed, sunk in.

He almost strutted as he continued to mingle among the nobles, his confidence boosted by what he saw as a very judicious decision.

That strut faltered when he came up to a blonde woman, her pretty face pinched with worry and concern as she pulled him aside, divulging news that he really wished he had been surprised to learn of.

This had been expected. After all, he had been part of the group that had…disposed of the former Arl. He still recalled Sorcha's face - bloodied and bruised - as she sank her blade deeply into the treacherous man's heart. Not really with joy, but…satisfaction.

He had meant to ask her about that, but had never gotten the chance to do so.

But he stood now, listening as the noblewoman explained what she had found, her features soft with sympathy for him, concern for herself. After all, divulging what she knew would place her in a great danger as well.

Great! There went his good mood! Offering the woman - Ser Tamra - his thanks, he went to Varel's side, asking him to have the nobles leave. Giving his Arl a quick, knowing nod, the seneschal ordered his men move the nobles out.

Jowan would have grinned at the seneschal's wording, had the current matter not been so serious.

"What's up?" Anders asked as he sauntered over to Jowan's side, Lyna close beside the mage, Nathaniel stalking from the sidelines.

"Oh, not much," Jowan quipped, inspecting his fingernails as the trio of wardens came up before him. "Just learned that there's a plot to kill me, is all."

"That is not a joking matter, Commander," Nathaniel sternly scolded, his dark gray eyes narrowing as he scowled at the mage. Lyna and Anders merely exchanged looks before focusing again upon their Commander.

"Oh, I know, I know," Jowan shrugged, looking up at the others. "It's just if I don't joke about it, I'll scream, maybe even pout a little. Trust me, screaming is something I can do very well. As well as pouting." He gestured toward his fellow mage. "Ask anyone who knew me from my days at the Circle. I think the term 'wuss' was tossed around a few times."

"What are you doing about it, then?" Anders asked, smirking and rolling his eyes at his fellow mage.

"I need to discuss it with Varel. Ser Tamra has some communications she's intercepted over the past few months. She is going to retrieve those and get them to us. We can proceed from there."

"Not much, then," Nathaniel frowned, his eyes thoughtful as he fixed his gaze upon Jowan. "But a start, at the very least."

Nodding, Jowan turned to lead his group from the Hall. "Yeah, at the very least." Turning to look over his shoulder, he asked. "Anyone hungry? I'm starved."


	9. Chapter 9

_Thanks, Ventisquear, for reviewing the previous chapter!_

_Just a little to keep the updates moving along…_

_From Isolation_

_Chapter 9_

She felt more than a little out of sorts. Velanna was currently tending the tiny herb garden she had started, and, with her hands plunged firmly into dirt, the former First was far easier to tolerate.

However, Lyna could not abide the acerbic woman's company, not at this time.

Moss green eyes scanned the courtyard, coming to rest finally upon the figures of her fellow Wardens as they practiced. She watched as Nathaniel ran his fingertips along the bow he held in his hand, raising it and sighting down the arrow to the target many yards before him. He pulled the bowstring back, his eyes focused, hand steady, before releasing the missile. She took another moment to admire his stance before turning her gaze to the others.

Jowan and Anders were at the moment practicing their hand to hand combat techniques. The Dalish hunter approved greatly the mages' desire to learn how to protect themselves and fight armed with something other than their magic. Her clan had many experiences with Templars in the past, and, many times, the only reason they continued to have a First and a Keeper was due to their knowledge of weapons and combat.

A slight pang erupted within her breast, and she loosed a sigh, a hand rising to clutch reflectively above her heart. Normally, thoughts of her clan would bring about a melancholy, but this was a physical discomfort she had not experienced since the attack those months prior. She held a hope that some had survived and were able to join another clan. She was certain it was a false hope she held onto, but had made the decision that false hope was better than no hope. Taking a deep breath and expelling it slowly, she stepped to Nathaniel's side, who turned a small smirk to her, eyebrow raised as the Dalish archer took up her own bow to match shot to shot with the human archer.

DAA

Paperwork threatened to escape the confines of the box Jowan had placed them in, hoping to secure them in a safe place, perhaps allowing himself to forget about them, even for a moment. A deep sigh escaped his lips as his dark eyes settled upon the stack again and, resignedly, he settled back into his seat, pulling a packet of parchments free of their confines, and began reading another request for soldiers from Bann Esmerelle.

_Were these nobles really that dense?_ The mage sighed, scowling as his picked up his pen, dipping the sharpened tip into the inkwell, to scribe a short note, reminding the bothersome wench…ah, noblewoman that they had already had this discussion and troops would be patrolling the farmlands for the foreseeable future. He made a suggestion that perhaps funds could be allocated from the beautification fund for extra soldiers. With a flourish, he signed his name, title and all, and then sat staring blankly at the response he had just written.

He remembered his days from the tower, when Irving's desk would likewise be piled high with papers – tasks for newly harrowed mages; class assignments for apprentices; even a few requests from parents seeking contact with their stolen children. In a rare flash of sympathy, Jowan realized that it was those letters that Irving had always taken the time to respond to before any of the other daily administrative duties he had to attend to. The mage wondered if any of those letters had been from his father.

Heavy lids closed over violet eyes as he recalled the sad expression upon his father's face when he had given in to his mother's demands that he take Jowan - that _thing_ as she had begun to refer to him as once his magic had manifested – from her sight, and deliver him to the nearest chantry. His father (and damn him for not remembering his father's name! All he could recall was 'Pa') had been heartbroken, unwilling to give up his only son, his child, to never see him again.

His father – his _Pa_ – had, however, given into his wife's pressures. Packing up the boy's clothes, making certain his favorite toy – a stuffed bear – was tucked securely under his five year old's arm, Pa picked up little Jowan, and walked the day's journey to the nearest chantry to deliver his mage son.

Tears formed around the edges of his eyes as he recalled the glimmer within his own father's eyes as he carefully handed his child over, trying in vain to explain Jowan's fear of the dark, how only Teddy and a specific song could soothe the child's nerves. The Templar who had taken control of Jowan had merely waved his Pa away, explaining that as a member of the circle, Jowan would no longer be spoiled with such childish nonsense. Pa had reached over, to try and take Jowan from the Templar's firm grip – maybe to give him a final hug, maybe to try and take back his actions of bringing him there - only to be shoved back, stumbling, the scape of a blade unsheathing echoing through Jowan's memories as his Pa looked stricken, ashamed and unsettled with the decision he had been pushed into.

"I love you, Jowan!" his Pa had called out as the small boy was pulled away, dragged into the Chantry, never to see his Pa again.

"Damn it," the blood mage muttered, wiping at his eyes as he pulled himself free of the painful memory. His father had not wanted to give up his child, had been threatened with bodily harm should he try to retake his own child. Violet eyes opened and settled once more upon the seemingly endless paperwork sat upon his desk.

Yes, he wondered if Irving had ever received a letter from his father, asking after his son. Damn that the old First Enchanter died during the Blight.

Scowling, he pulled another packet free of the pile, his eyes widening slightly with concern. With a nod, he rose, taking the packet with him as he left to call the wardens to the throne room.

DAA

"The Blackmarsh?" Anders quipped, amber eyes narrowing as his face crinkled in distaste. "Who, in their right mind, goes into a place called _the Blackmarsh_?"

"Idiots, like us," Jowan offered with a smirk of his own, "However," he straightened from his position over the chest, scanning the room's contents. "this gives us a clue as to where our missing Warden could be."

"They couldn't have called it the Kittenmarsh?" Anders asked, smiling as a small purr rose from his pack. At the incredulous stares from his companions, the mage shrugged, "Flowermarsh?"

"Doesn't help," Lyna said with her own smile and a slight shake of her white-blonde head as she replaced Kristoff's journal on the table. "You can have the prettiest word in the world first, but follow up with 'marsh' and it kind of negates it."

Tilting his head, the smirk softening to a small grin, Anders replied, "Hmmm…Lynamarsh," the elf blushed slightly even as Nathaniel scoffed. "I dunno. Still sounds pretty to me." He practically purred this last out.

Nathaniel's face darkened slightly but Jowan merely chuckled. "Rein it in, Anders," he said to his flirtatious warden as he flashed a grin at the still blushing elf. "Knowing the woman and her skills, sounds even more ominous."

Flushing deeper at the compliment, the Dalish archer turned in a show of studying the map tacked to the wall. Jowan smirked back at Anders before turning his attention to the map.

Kristoff, a Grey Warden from Orlais, had been out on a mission since the time of the Darkspawn attack upon Vigil's Keep several weeks prior. They had received no word from the veteran warden and Jowan, concerned for the man's safety, had taken most of the wardens to Amaranthine to search for clues to the man's location. Searching his room at the Crown and Lion had revealed that he had gone to the Blackmarsh to scout out a report of strange occurrences deep in the wilderness.

A glance out the window told the mage that darkness would be falling soon. "Well, then, we should get rooms here and then head out in the morning," he frowned, turning away from the window. "I'll have the innkeep send a messenger to the keep advising them of where we are heading."

"I am certain Varel would appreciate that," Nathaniel offered with a nod.

Twisting slightly to look at the former noble, Jowan asked, "Did you know Varel from when he served your father?"

Nathaniel's dark eyes darkened slightly, a slight frown forming upon the flat planes of his face. "I did. But, only barely." The man shrugged slightly. "I remember his fierce loyalty to the citizens of Amaranthine, as well as deep sense of honor and pride." His features darkened a bit, showing the temper that lay just below the carefully held surface. "It was no surprise to me to learn that Varel had fallen ill of my father."

Turning, Jowan led the others from the room to acquire additional rooms for the wardens. "I know," he offered in his quiet voice. "I like the man, too."


End file.
